Born Lucky
by Captain Hilts
Summary: Miller's squad is sent on a mission a day after the Omaha Beach landing. Their objective is to destroy the .88 caliber flak cannons that lie in wait, aimed at the beach head. Of course, things don't quite go as planned... Jackson POV. Rated for Language.
1. Chapter 1

"Form up!" ordered Horvath.

They all gathered around him, awaiting further direction. Jackson crouched beside Reiben, Mellish flanking him and Wade behind him. The Captain had yet to return.

"Where's Beasley?" Horvath demanded, and they all groaned.

"Hell if I know," Mellish said, visibly irritated.

Even Jackson was rolling his eyes. Beasley was the kid who got on everyone's nerves, in spite of the fact that they know he meant well.

He was the translator, fully fluent in both French and German. He had proven useful after they had taken prisoners, and helped some of the bewildered French civilians find safe places to live after the Americans had arrived.

But other than that, they only tolerated him on rare occasions. He was always too cheerful, and had not gained Reiben or Mellish's respect, due to his kind treatment of the German prisoners. Jackson didn't think too much of that fact, realizing that Wade had helped a few of the teenage Nazis. At any rate, Beasley did annoy him, and he shared the squad's attitude toward him.

"Beasley!" the Sarge bellowed after spying him, "Get your scrawny ass over here!"

Rail-thin Beasley approached them, looking flushed. His bright red hair contrasted the muted colors of his uniform, and one could see it curling at his temples from under his helmet. Even though they had known him since Basic, the M1 rifle looked out of place in his hands. He tripped over a line of barbed wire in his haste to reach them.

"Take a knee. Where the hell have you been?" Horvath commanded, that all-too- familiar frown on his face.

"Probably out with his Nazi buddies," Reiben muttered to Mellish, who nodded. Both of them stifled laughs.

The Sarge rounded on them.

"What is so funny over here?"  
Mellish shook his head, and Horvath turned back to Beasley, who was fumbling for words.

"Uh, they needed more help down at the P.O.W. sector, sir," he stammered.

"I told you so," Reiben whispered.

Jackson pursed his lips as the Sarge snapped at them again. They fell into respectful silence. Sergeant Horvath appeared to be satisfied with Beasley's excuse, but he still didn't look happy about it.

"So what's going on, Sarge?" Reiben quizzed him.

"Alright," Horvath sighed, "I'm not going to sugar-coat anything, so let's get it over with. HQ has verified that there are 88 flak cannons a few miles out from the beachhead," the squad flinched, obviously not thrilled with what they knew was coming. The sergeant continued. "It's our job to go and take 'em out. This isn't going to be easy, as you all might have guessed, but I'll guarantee you it won't be as bad as taking this goddamn beach."

They seemed to agree with him on that. Captain Miller came into view not long after, looking serious as he always did. He surveyed the young men before him, that familiar feeling of responsibility weighing down his shoulders. Beasley was the only one looking remotely horrified with the orders given. Miller gave him a small smile, and that seemed to reassure him.

"Sir, are we doing this by ourselves, or are we actually getting any back up?" asked Caparzo.

"We will be joined by a few squads from Charlie Company and a squad of Rangers from Baker. Hopefully, a few Shermans will be there for moral support," Miller answered him.

They laughed at that, pleased with the prospect of having a couple tanks watching their back.

"Have we all been briefed accordingly?"

They nodded as one. Miller looked from each youthful face to the other, detecting an underlying fear of the mission at hand. But they wouldn't balk at the orders; that was what they were here to do. Miller was proud of every one of them.

"You have a half-hour to eat something, gear up- whatever it is you have to do. No more time than that. You're dismissed."

With that, they had all gone their separate ways. The Captain and the Sergeant watched them as they talked amongst each other and laughed and griped.

"Penny for your thoughts, sir?" Horvath asked him.

"I don't know, Mike," he sighed, "But if this thing goes sour, I'm not sure I can keep doing this."

Horvath wasn't sure if Miller was being serious or not. He'd been with him since North Africa and still didn't know how the guy worked.

"I have faith in these guys. They've had one hell of a crash course, and I think they'll be ready for whatever else the Krauts throw at us," he said.

"…I hope you're right, Mike; I really do…"

Horvath wasn't sure why the Captain was having doubts about these men. Maybe it was the landing. That had screwed everyone up. Even the most hard-boiled guys had fallen apart. It was enough to make everyone want to give up.

Miller instructed Horvath to keep an eye on the squad. The Sergeant sighed.

"Yes sir."

Reiben had cracked open a 'K' ration and was questioningly inspecting the food that was compacted into the small container. Jackson watched on, shoveling a wad of spam into his mouth. He had neglected to use the little spoon that had come with it, fully convinced of its uselessness. He, Reiben and Beasley had all decided to eat something before leaving.

"This isn't food," Reiben declared, dropping the ration into his lap, discouraged, "I don't know if I can eat this without believing I'm going to end up with a horrible sickness."

"Quit your griping. At least we get food, with cigarettes and toilet paper to boot," Jackson told him, scraping up what was left of the spam with his fingers.

"You didn't wash your hands, Jackson!" Reiben said to him with mock surprise.

"Well, you didn't wash out your mouth accordingly," the sharpshooter cracked.

That seemed to shut him up for the time being, but he still went on about the state of his ration. He sat on his helmet, the rifle propped up against the hill beside him.

"I mean, _look_ at this! It's disgraceful. Does this look like a damn biscuit to you?"

The rifleman held up a morsel of light-colored food as he spoke. Jackson shrugged. He was halfway done with his ration by now. Reiben sighed, shaking his head in pity.

"You don't know what real food tastes like, do you?"

"Not true. I just know when to stop bitching and use my time wisely," Jackson returned, mixing what was left of the spam with some eggs.

Beasley laughed at that. Reiben scowled at him. The three of them continued eating, watching the beach as they did so. Caparzo was off gathering extra ammunition as he had been told; Mellish was talking with a fellow Ranger, still looking for information in regards to the companies on the cliffs. Wade was restocking his supplies, treating those he could, talking to them gently as he healed their wounds. Sergeant Horvath reappeared, looking around for his helmet. Jackson pointed to it, and he took it from the sand, plopping it back on his head. Reiben presented his ration to Horvath and asked kindly,

"Would you like a serving of botulism, sir?"

Jackson broke into laughter. Even the Sarge smiled at that. Reiben was grinning himself, pleased with his work.

"Eat your food, Private Reiben. That is an order," Sarge told him awkwardly.

Reiben saluted, continuing to pick at his ration, disheartened.

"Whatever you say, Sarge…but I'd really like to see you eating this crap…"

Captain Miller arrived on time- thirty minutes later. Unfortunately, only Jackson, Beasley and Wade were ready to leave. He had to shout for Caparzo and Mellish to join them. Both had been walking around, trying to scrounge a pack of cigarettes or gum from the other soldiers.

"Where's Reiben?" Miller asked, fearing the answer.

"I believe he's taking a piss, sir," replied Caparzo.

The Captain sighed, searching the faces of the soldiers nearest to him, looking for Reiben's unmistakable mug. He finally spotted him, standing a few feet away by one of the trenches, looking preoccupied.

"Private Reiben!"

The kid wheeled around, startled, recognizing the irritation in that voice. He scurried over to them soon after, heaving the B.A.R. over his shoulder and dropping his helmet over his head.

"Sorry, sir," he panted, "It was a last-minute kinda thing."

Miller peered at the trooper disapprovingly, but decided to let it go. He sighed again, checking his watch.

"Alright. Right now, it's about…0400 hours. We'll be making good time if we get started," Miller pulled out a map and held it in his hands, tracing a line with his fingers. The map looked brand new, with crisp folds. "The 88s should be a mile out from here or closer. The Germans are bringing some of them in from the fields to use against us on the beaches. If we don't get them all, then we can kiss this place good-bye."

His men looked amongst themselves, feeling that hesitation and adrenaline began each mission.

"This shouldn't be a walk in the park, but it's nothing we can't handle. We're Rangers, remember that. That's why we got this mission."

They didn't need telling twice. They knew what was expected of them. Miller was just going through the motions. He looked from each man to the other, nodding.

"Sergeant Horvath and I will take point. Wade-Beasley, you two are in the middle. Jackson, left flank; Reiben right flank; Mellish-Caparzo- take the rear. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" they said in unison.

"Alright, then. Let's lock and load."

He trudged through the sand, his men following close behind in the positions they had been assigned. Beasley looked nervous. The Captain's squad finally met up with a couple more from Charlie Company and the promised group from Baker. Together, they all left the safe haven of the beachhead, delving further into France; further into the danger.

Behind them, the familiar motors of the Sherman tanks sounded, and they were somewhat comforted with the knowledge that they would have their support.

Miller's squad was up front, about a yard away from the second squad, led by a Lieutenant named Jones. A Corporal had originally been the head of one squad, due to the fact that all his officers had been killed. It was a disturbing fact that made them realize that death knew no rank.

Private Beasley was pale as he stepped cautiously through the fields of tall grass and poppies. Wade was beside him, though roughly three feet away; Miller had always stressed that they should not bunch up. Beasley was jumping at every noise, even the sound of Allied gunfire. Everything was loud and clear in the chilly air of the morning.

"Hey Beez," came Private Reiben's Brooklyn accent, "You doin' okay?"

Beasley nodded wordlessly, his wide eyes and ragged breathing betraying his statement.

"You've got nothing to worry about, Beez. We'll protect you; keep you safe."

Something about the way he was saying all this convinced Beasley not to believe a word he said. Reiben always sounded sarcastic.

"What are you afraid of anyway?"

The other members of the squad stared at the B.A.R. gunner, telling him it was completely obvious. The Sarge shook his head.

"I dunno, Reiben," Beasley stammered caustically, "Maybe it's the _Germans_ I'm afraid of!"

"Ah, the Germs should be afraid of _you_," Reiben continued, "I mean, you've got the bangalores for Christ's sake."

Beasley was beginning to look sick. He had seemed to forget about the long pole charges he carried on his back. Aside from being the squad's translator, Beasley had become the squad's makeshift demolitions man. He had learned quickly how to set and arm a bangalore torpedo, but was in no way an expert. In all truth, Beasley didn't look like he wanted anything to do with the explosives.

Charlie Company, however, had at least two more explosives experts who had survived the landing. Private Talbot would be there to assist Miller's squad or anyone else's accordingly.

Talbot was an okay guy, but he got along better with Reiben, unfortunately for the rest of the Company. The only difference was Talbot was a native of Boston. He had dirty blond hair and a wide, toothy smile. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips. He looked no older than twenty three.

Reiben continued to try and coax Beasley into talking, but the private wouldn't have it. His mouth remained firmly shut, his lips forming a straight line.

Jackson had blotted out most of the conversation, staring at the horizon lines, looking for a glimpse of those 88s, straining his ears to hear the cough of mortars. His Springfield rifle cradled in his hands, ready to do its dirty work.

He had already decided long ago that he hated France. He didn't want to come back ever again. Too many people had died; too many good people. Some of them he didn't even know, but he had loved them all like brothers. And he hated this place. He didn't like the long grass, or the beaches, or the rocky terrain. He didn't like how the bottle green fields reminded him of home, or the way the air was damp and cool. He hated all of it….but no one would have guessed that looking at him.

Right now he was content with doing what he was used to. He continued to scan the horizon, taking in every detail he could. It was something the others weren't able to do; Jackson could tell what each line in their faces meant and how they looked before they said something. He could tell the nature of a conversation before anyone said anything. Most of the body language he'd learned from the Captain. Each member of his squad had a unique way of revealing themselves to him without a word.

They may have all looked the same in those Olive Drabs, but Jackson could tell how different they were just by looking at the back of their heads. If someone coughed, he knew who it was. This fact tended to give him a 'spooky' quality that the others teased him for, but it was necessary to become as good a sniper as Jackson was.

Right then, he could tell that Private Reiben was really nervous, under all that bravado and smart-alec attitude. He could tell from the way his muscles were tensed, and the fact that the veins in his hands showed as he clutched the rifle firmly. Jackson smirked knowingly to himself. So the private was human after all…

"Hey Beez, let's be serious. This is a routine mission; after that beach, this'll be a walk in the park," Reiben continued.

The others all sighed, marveling at the private's inability to shut up.

"Reiben-" Wade began, but surprisingly, Beasley answered.

"I might actually believe that…but we still have Rommel to worry about."

"Maybe not," Mellish piped up, "I heard that Hitler's keeping his ass up at the Pas, waiting for the 'real' invasion to begin."

"No kidding?" Jackson asked. Rommel was a soldier with countless stories surrounding him. It had been entertaining to hear the other Rangers talk about him, and the subject of Rommel had interested Jackson.

Mellish, sensing he had the attention of the squad (a position he surely didn't mind), continued on with his information.

"I'm serious. I heard that the guy leading the Germs here is that kid from North Africa...I don't remember his name…"

Reiben laughed, finally able to put his two cents in.

"He's got no name," he added with fake mystery, "They just called him 'the Desert Kid,' remember?"

Miller was listening, now. He shot the Sarge a knowing grin, and they both shook their heads. Beasley gulped.

"I heard that he was nasty," he muttered.

Not amazingly, Reiben heard him.

"Oh, the guy's a badass, Beez. Took out a bunch of Desert Rats all by himself- at least that's what I heard…"

"That's not right," Caparzo spoke up, lighting a Lucky brand cigarette, "He road into the camp on his motorcycle and scared the hell out of all of 'em. Then he blew up _three_ of their Howitzers- all by himself."

Miller couldn't help chuckling at their confusion.

"Wait…_I _thought he got shot off the bike in that same day, and they all thought he was dead," Jackson added, "Then the bastard got right back up and took out the Howitzers by himself."

"I think the hillbilly's right," agreed Reiben, "I think that's how it happened."

"But what about the rumor that he saved Rommel from the Tommies that came to kill him? I thought he got shot off his bike then…" Beasley said, frowning.

Reiben swore.

"Crap…I guess it's not all that clear, is it?"

"That's why he's a legend," Jackson returned.

"I heard he kept a desert coyote as his pet," Beasley said, the mystery real in his voice, "And he sics it on the enemy when they escape or they're too far away for his men to get."

Miller laughed aloud at that. Beasley seemed embarrassed.

"That's not right," Miller laughed quietly, "Where did you hear that?"

"…A guy in Able Company told me, on the battleship," Beasley replied, his cheeks almost as red as his hair.

"Able Company…it figures," Sergeant Horvath grumbled.

Jackson was interested. Miller obviously knew something about this 'Desert Kid.' If they got a chance to figure something out about their Captain, this was it.

"You know about 'the Kid,' Sir?" Jackson asked.

Miller hesitated, but only momentarily.

"…Yeah, I know about him."

The group members looked amongst each other, somewhat surprised. They continued to march through the terrain, awaiting further comments. As if sensing their eagerness to hear more, Miller commenced talking.

"Way back in North Africa, when I was a private, just like the lot of you, there had been a lot of rumors about this supposed, 'kid.' It was ridiculous, some of it, but each of the guys who had fought in battle against this soldier claimed he was most formidable." The Captain glanced over at Horvath, who sniggered. "Now, at first I thought maybe these guys had all seen bad things in battle, and that they just made this kid up so they'd have something to blame it on…"

"That is, until you met the guy and found out it was all true," Reiben interrupted, smirking.

Jackson knew the Captain was telling the truth, but he also knew that Reiben was a pretty skeptical person.

"You're right on the map, Private. This kid, this 'Desert Kid,' came into our encampment one night, and started raising hell over by the Sherman columns and the deuce-and-a-half trucks."

His men had all leaned forward, dying to hear the rest. Miller grinned; he had them all in the palm of his hand. He took another glance at the Sarge, who couldn't believe he was telling them all this.

"So, what? What was going on?" Beasley was immensely interested.

"Well… it turns out, this guy was here in retaliation, because we'd attacked them pretty bad the day before. This was after Kasserine, so we were feeling a bit resentful of the way they'd been treating us." His men laughed lightly, understanding the dark humor. "Anyway, I could hear the motorcycle off in the distance, but I thought that there were at the least, five of 'em or so."

"But it's just one guy, right?" Reiben butted in.

"…Yeah, it was just one guy. He was doing doughnuts by the columns, because he knew that we were basically blind if the sand was in the air. We were poorly equipped for that damn sand, I'll tell you what," Miller went on. The Sarge agreed with him. "I did get a glimpse of this guy- he was no younger than Jackson over there," the Captain pointed, "But he had the same ranking I do now."

"What the hell is a Captain doing all the way back by your lines?" Mellish asked.

"That's what makes it a legend," said Wade.

"All I can say is," Miller told them, "Is that he was damn talented with that set of wheels. He caked everything in so much mud and dust, we didn't realize he'd put a shitload of explosives on the tank treads. We lost six before they figured it out."

That was all the Captain spoke of the mysterious German soldier. This 'Kid' was beginning to gain as much respect from the Allies as Rommel did. They understood he was the enemy of course, but they respected him as a worthy opponent. He was smart in everything he did, making it nearly impossible to figure out his next move.

"I heard they can't even spy on him," Beasley said, "He sends the spies back across the channel in a boat with a note written in _English_."

The way he said it made Jackson laugh. Beasley looked self-conscious again.

"Now that is pure nonsense," the sharpshooter drawled.

Beasley peered over at him, and Jackson winked.

"Don't get fooled by them Able Company guys," he said.

Beasley grinned and nodded. That respect he needed wasn't that far off, now. If he could get to the sniper, he could get to the others. Captain Miller seemed to sympathize with him…  
"We've really been talking loud, haven't we?" Mellish laughed.

"Ah, it's a good thing, Fish," Caparzo assured him, "I say, let the Krauts know we're coming."

"Yeah, we've really got 'em shaking in their boots," Wade muttered.

Reiben actually smiled at that.

The sky had not gotten any lighter in the time they had been traveling. Crickets were chirping as they marched. Jackson diverted his attention back to the horizon after the squad had quieted back down. He watched as the grass bent where he stepped, and could smell the smoke drifting from Caparzo's cigarette. It was then he saw it. His trained eyes caught it before everyone else's. He ran up to Beasley, grabbing the private by the collar of his uniform.

"Captain!" he shouted.

Miller, hearing the alarm in his voice, turned to look at the sky. It was then they all heard the high-pitched screech of the artillery shells.

"Screaming Meemies!" Reiben bellowed.

The soldiers scattered, sprinting through the fields as fast as they could. Jackson still had Beasley by the collar. Both were screaming. The shells finally hit the ground, sending chunks of dirt and men flying. Jackson and Beasley were forced off their feet, landing face-first in the mud.

"Beasley?!"

"I'm fine!" came a terrified voice.

Jackson rolled to his feet and pulled his comrade along with him. All around them men were shouting different orders, scattered in every direction. The air was charged as they waited uncertainly for the next attack. The smell of cordite was thick in his nostrils as the sniper searched for his squad. There was a large crater in the area they'd all been standing in.

"Jackson!" shouted a familiar voice, "Jackson?!"

"Over here, Reiben! I'm here!!"

The private ran up to him and Beasley, relief flashing in his eyes. His face was smeared with dirt and his assault jacket had been peppered with even more holes.

"This isn't over. They've gotta be at least five miles out."

"How the hell can you know that?!" Reiben snapped.

"Because I was the only one who paid attention in basic," Jackson shot back, "Where's Cap'n Miller?!"

Reiben shook his head. He actually looked vulnerable at that moment, and Jackson suddenly felt a pang of helplessness. If Reiben was going to lose it, then he didn't know what he would do. Beside them, Beasley was beginning to sob.

"We're gonna die…"

Reiben reached over and slapped him.

"Shut up!"

Beasley just stared at him. Jackson hardly reacted. The screech came again, and they knew that it would be more accurate this time. Around them the men shouted and scattered. This time it was Reiben who snatched up Beasley and hauled him along. The shell hit only a few feet behind them once again, and they stumbled. Jackson and Beasley kept their footing, and the latte running ahead. Reiben fell, crying out. Jackson skidded to a halt as Beasley ran on.

"Come on, Reiben!!" he shouted as another scream sounded above, "Come On!!"

The B.A.R. trooper snatched his comrade's hand, and the sharpshooter heaved him to his feet. Together they ran across the remaining stretch of the field to the tree line, where several men had already collected.

Panting like dogs, they fell into the shrubs as the shell exploded farther out- exactly where they had been standing.

"Where you a sprinter back home, bumpkin?" Reiben gasped, flat on his back.

Jackson managed a smile, shaking his head.

"Just born lucky is all," he answered.

**Author's note: Hope you liked it! ;) Just a quick tidbit: The characters are not mine, sadly; I'm just barrowing them for a time. And, depending on how well you know the movie, you're familiar with Beasley already…we just never saw him in action… Anyway, thanks for reading and leave a review if you please. Thanks. **


	2. Chapter 2

Jackson slumped up against a tree, his lungs burning. His trembling fingers found his cross and he said,

"'_Yea, though I should walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear_ _no evil; for thou art with me…_'"

Jackson kissed the cross.

"Private!!"

Both he and Reiben looked up at the same time to see Sergeant Horvath. They breathed sighs of relief.

"Am I glad to see your beautiful face, Sarge," Reiben told him.

"Oh, that's real sweet, Reiben," Horvath sneered, "I need you both to come with me."

Obediently, the two Rangers followed their sergeant along the line of trees. Reiben was clutching his forearm as they ran. Horvath took notice.

"I need Wade," said the private.

Horvath pursed his lips; he'd lost the medic in all the confusion. He looked back at Reiben's wound, noticing it was a large gash across his arm.

"Are you about to die from the pain, or can you live with it?" he asked.

"I'll be fine for right now."

Reiben glanced at Jackson, reading the expression on his face. Something had happened to Wade.

"Jackson, we need you up ahead, alright?" the private nodded. Sarge continued, "Miller was able to catch a glimpse of the Kraut that's been scouting out our position, but he and I both know you'll be able to spot him better than us."

Horvath looked back at them gravely, then.

"We're not safe here."

At his words, they heard the coughing of the mortars in the distance, and a neat row of craters were made inside the trees. There were still men caught in the field, screaming for medics and their commanding officers. The Screaming Meemies went off once again. Reiben swore as they ran.

They came up to a denser part of the wood, where a haggard Captain Miller crouched. Surrounding him were a gaggle of scared and wounded men. Miller had that familiar calm expression on his face, but his eyes told Jackson he was worried.

"We have to do something about that scout before we can get out of here," he said, "Jackson, you're up."

"Go get 'em, bible boy," Reiben told him, smirking. He hit him on the shoulder.

Jackson allowed himself a faint smile. He ran up to Miller, who grabbed him by the elbow and steered him away. More explosions sounded in the distance.

"Sir, have you seen the others?"

"…No Jackson, I haven't, but I'm sure they're fine."

His voice was stilted, as if he were very irritated. Jackson was surprised at how quickly the Captain moved. For an 'old man' he wasn't too slow…

"If I may say so, sir," panted Jackson, "This whole thing is 'Fubar.'"

"I'll agree with you on that, private," Miller said with a wry smile.

They moved quickly through the trees, finally reaching a clearing in the branches. A Lieutenant was already there, scoping out the area with Miller's field glasses.

"Out of the way, Jones. I've got the secret weapon right here."

Jones frowned, looking the gangly private up and down. The Springfield rifle looked like a toy in his hands.

"Who is _this_?"

"He's the guy that can get us out of this mess," the Captain returned, "But he can do no such thing if you don't move your ass!!"

The Lieutenant slid aside to let them look through the branches. Jackson lay prone, and Miller flanked him on the left. He held out a hand for the field glasses, and Jones dropped them in his palm. Jackson reached for the canister on his back, pulling out the special scope he'd hand-picked himself. He snapped it on the rifle, and peered through the crystal.

"Okay, look straight ahead, then pan slowly to the right," Miller instructed.

Jackson did so, pushing his helmet to the top of his head. The Meemies went off again, blowing away more men and finally caught one of mortars that had been set up. The field lit up in a brilliant orange flame. But the private ignored it, looking for his target; that was all that mattered right now.

"He should be over by the far off bushes, near a couple of trees."

They both watched as the tracer rounds from their machine guns tore through the dark sky, putting on an eerily beautiful show. Jackson was beginning to wonder how the Captain had managed to see the Kraut, mainly because it was hard to see in this light. Even he was having a hard time locating the German.

Miller watched the sharpshooter work his magic, knowing that Jackson would find the bastard.

"I see 'im, sir. He's a smart boy, I'll tell you what. He's all camouflaged. I wouldn't of found him if he hadn't made the wrong move."

"Have you got a shot?"

"Yes, sir."

"Take it."

Jackson lined up the shot, starting to take calm, slow breaths. But Jones interrupted, grabbing the lanky boy by the shoulder. Miller swore at the Lieutenant, shoving him away.

"He's gonna lose the idiot! What is it that's so damn important?!" Jones fumbled for words, but Miller didn't give him the time to come up with something, "Get out of here!!"

Jones looked bewildered for a moment, then finally caught the drift. He quickly went away and kept as many soldier from Miller and the kid as best he could.

The Captain could tell that Jackson was frustrated, but he recovered quickly. The private was trying to drown out all the sounds; the screaming, shouting, explosions…

"O Lord, grant me strength," he whispered, "Many a man is counting on me…"

He exhaled, relaxing his muscles. The helmet of the German soldier was right in the crosshairs. Gently, he pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed. The German fell in his sights before the distinctive, hallow sound echoed across the plains.

"Hell of a shot, son," Miller breathed, peering through the binoculars.

"He was S.S., sir," replied Jackson, "I could tell from the helmet-two black lightnin' bolts right on the side."

"You sure?" Miller's face was stern

Jackson nodded, bringing the Springfield closer to him. It was then the Captain felt the anger. Seeing his sniper's youthful face only reminded him of the lives being lost.

"This whole thing is fouled up! The damn B-17s were supposed to take care of all this!" he growled.

Jackson had never seen the Captain look so frantic. He could tell from the way he gritted his teeth and the tensing of his muscles. He noticed Miller's hand was shaking again.

"Sir, we have to get out of this forest," Jackson told him, and he seemed to snap out of it, "The Germs don't have a scout, but that doesn't mean it won't stop those things from launching."

The kid was right. Miller closed his eyes to gather his bearings. _I can't send these kids up against the S.S. by themselves,_ he thought. It made him so angry that they were doing this. _But they won't be going alone._

"Lieutenant!"

"Sir!"

"Get those soldiers over here, would ya'? I'm going to be taking a group through the field to take out the Meemies."

Jones gaped at him. It was the most insane idea he'd ever heard. But then again, that kid Jackson was a crack shot…

"Go!" Miller shouted, "What are you waiting for?!"

Jones ran off to gather the required men. Jackson was watching the end of the field, making sure no more Germans were running to get the scout. He didn't think they would….

Private Richard Reiben was spouting curses left and right. He was alongside fellow soldiers, helping to drag the wounded out of the field. He had managed to find Beasley, and the two of them were helping as best they could.

It wasn't until they took a weary pause in their task did Reiben realize that the Screaming Meemies had stopped. He laughed to himself, in disbelief over having lived through that. He had thought he'd heard Jackson's rifle cracking over head earlier.

His arm was still bleeding, and it stung, but he'd live. He still hadn't found Wade or the others. There had been a very frightening moment when he thought Mellish had gotten killed, but it turned out to be someone else.

The Rangers had suffered a savage beating. But Reiben realized this was only the eye of the storm.

"Private Reiben!" shouted the Sarge's voice, "Beasley!"

The two of them were on their feet, running to where they were needed. Relief washed over the B.A.R. gunner upon seeing Captain Miller, looking livid and ragged, but alive. Jackson was beside him, and a cluster of Rangers were waiting patiently around him.

"You okay, Beez?" Jackson asked.

The private nodded silently as Reiben said,

"He's fine, now."

Captain Miller spoke.

"Gentlemen, very soon you will all be crossing that field to get rid of those Meemies-"

"What happened to them 88s, Cap'n?" Reiben questioned him, the trace of a smile on his face.

"Well, I can guarantee they aren't here yet, Private, so we still have some time before they show up," Miller returned. He permitted them a quiet laugh at his dark humor, then continued. "A group from Charlie is going first. The group from Baker will come behind, but attack from the right flank. That means you will be going through the trees and around to the other side."

"With all due respect, Captain," the Lieutenant interjected, "We don't even know where the Jerries are. They could be miles out- you know how far those shells can reach."

"Can't be too far- those 88s were only supposed to be a mile out."

Lieutenant Jones did not look convinced, but he knew Miller was an experienced soldier. The Captain read the expression on his face.

"If we need to know where any of them are, I have Private Jackson right here to help. This kid is the best, Phil. He could snipe a fly off Hitler's head if he wanted to."

"…I'd rather be aiming at Hitler, sir," Jackson said.

The others laughed nervously around them. Lieutenant Jones appeared convinced. Miller addressed the Rangers once again. Now it was serious. No more joking around.

"Due to the fine planning by the Allied command, we still have our primary objective. Therefore, once we eliminate those Meemies, then we get the 88s. I'll lead my squad through first. Baker circles over to our right flank. I want covering fire if we need it, is that understood?"

A chorus of 'yes sir's sounded around him. Miller nodded. He assembled his men- Reiben, Jackson, Beasley, Horvath and Talbot. He knew he was still missing Wade, Mellish, and Caparzo, but they would have to do this without them.

Miller led the group quickly into the field, where they maneuvered around the craters as best he could. An odd feeling had gripped him-the knowledge that he was responsible for each young life around him, including his own.

"Captain, sir?"

Miller suppressed a gasp of disbelief. That Brooklyn kid just couldn't shut up for anything.

"What, Private Reiben?" he asked through his teeth as they jogged.

"…Is it too late to apply for a furlough, sir?"

The Captain peered over at Horvath, a motion he was so used to it was almost second-nature. The Sergeant's eyes said the same thing,_ the nerve of this guy, huh?_

"I'll set up the papers myself, Reiben," Miller answered him, "At least then you'd be out of my hair."

"You're too kind, Cap'n."

They jogged through the field, tripping over rocks and their own comrades. A few medics had taken advantage of the break in the fighting, and were working as fast as they could to get the wounded up and running again. One of these particular medics had the same baby-face each member of Miller's squad remembered clearly.

"Wade!" Jackson hissed through the darkness.

A dark figure looked up, and what was left of the moonlight caught his face to reveal the medic they had needed. He looked happy at the sight of his comrades, but quickly hid it. He rose to his feet and addressed the Captain.

"Will you need me, sir?"

Miller took a moment, as if realizing for the first time what he was about to do. He nodded.

"Yes, a little extra help couldn't hurt."

Wade exchanged the news with his fellow aid men, then rejoined the squad, silently contented to have been reunited with them.

"Good to have you back, Doc," Beasley said as they continued.

"Don't suppose you could fix me up?" Reiben added, presenting his arm.

Wade treated him without any complaint.

Jackson could tell that the Captain was more at ease now that he'd found where the medic had been, but his eyes gave him away. They were weary of the task at hand. Miller and Horvath still took point, looking over to their right flank every now and then to make sure the Baker squad was following.

Jackson held the Springfield at the ready, his deep blue eyes set firmly on the horizon once again. He was a bit angry that the few tanks that had traveled with them did not fire on the German's position, but a man in the Baker squad had a radio that could contact the Shermans if necessary.

They still traveled onward, maybe a half-mile or more away from their position in the woods, when Miller and Sarge stopped them. They all crouched in the grass, rifles at the ready. Jackson heard the sputtering of the motors before anyone else did. At first he thought it was a halftrack, but as it came closer, he understood that it was smaller than that. The Sarge practically strained his arm as he waved at Beasley furiously to get down. Jackson snatched the private's arm and pulled him to a prone position. The others watched tensely as the vehicle came into view. It was a Kettenkrad- an armored German motorcycle. Jackson gulped; Beasley whimpered.

The vehicle roared past the squad and stopped a few feet away. Jackson watched as the Captain mouthed a foul curse word. His men peered at him for direction, but he only put a finger to his lips. They nodded as one, watching the Germans like hawks.

They were talking very quickly. To Jackson, it seemed as if they were bickering about something. Carefully, he inched his way up beside Beasley.

"What're they saying, Beez?" he whispered.

The private took a moment to listen, then turned back to him.

"They're confused on where we are. One guy says that the scout was killed by a sniper, and another says they sent a squad out this way."

Jackson knew that the former was correct.

"They're looking for us," Beasley squeaked in his ear.

Jackson watched as the two Germans in the back argued on with the driver. He peered through the scope on his rifle to get a good look at them. The distinctive symbol of the _Waffen_ S.S. glared at him in the dim light- two black lightning bolts against a white background. Jackson swore under his breath.

He gently took a small pebble in his hand and tossed it so that it struck Miller on the leg. He whipped around to look at him. Jackson signaled an 'S' shape to him twice, and the Captain appeared to understand. He would have signaled something back, but the one of the Germans began sputtering loudly. He sounded agitated.

"He's really angry," Beasley explained under his breath, "He thinks the others are being stupid, because they want to head back and just use the 88s." Jackson felt a drop in his stomach, and his wide eyes met with Miller's. Beasley exclaimed, "Oh, no!"

"What?!"

"…L-look, Jackson-!"

He did so, frowning. His breath caught in his throat at that moment. One of the Germans had a rocket launcher on his back; an SMG was balanced across the knees of the driver.

"They're gonna blow us all up back there," Beasley hissed frantically as the Germans spoke in apathetic tones.

"Jackson, they'll be shooting any second!"

As he said this, the German on the back of the bike raised the barrels of his _Panzershreck _and took aim. Without even thinking, Jackson lifted the Springfield and fired. One soldier slumped over, falling over the side of the Kettenkrad. The second, having been startled, fired off the shell, but it soared over their heads. A burst of light trailed over them and a deafening boom sounded, tearing a tree on their right flank in half. The squad stood up, firing at the occupants of the vehicle. The B.A.R. was roaring. When the loud _pings _of the M1s sounded, signaling they were out of ammo, silence finally fell over the fields once again. The Germans were dead. Jackson was stuck in some kind of strange world, feeling as if he were in neither reality nor dream.

"Sound off if you're hit!"

"Hey…!"

Jackson recognized the voice._ Beasley…_Wade was on duty within a few seconds, in spite of the fact his helmet had fallen off and a clump of grass stuck to his hair.

"Anyone else?" came the Sarge's voice.

No answer. Jackson was expecting a snide remark from Reiben, but he said nothing.

"This is getting insane," the Captain snapped, "The _S.S._ isn't supposed to be here-just those dumbass 88s!"

Jackson pretended not to hear Miller's outburst, walking over to the Kettenkrad and its dead occupants. He was more interested in the armored bike itself then the people surrounding it. He reached out and grabbed one of the handle bars, inspecting the vehicle with a frown.

"Hey, Li'l Abner, don't go thinking that's yours," Reiben said. The sarcasm had returned to his voice, but he still wasn't back to normal yet.

Jackson ignored him, looking ahead at where the motorcycle had come. He was still frowning. By that time, Beasley had been all fixed up; he'd needed a shoulder bandage and a small head bandage, but he'd be alright.

"Dames love scars, Beez," said Reiben.

When Miller realized that the squad was alright, he prepared them to continue toward the German outpost. Two more squads had joined them, including Lieutenant Jones' men.

"Is everyone alright?" he asked sternly.

As if to save the Captain from any sort of scrutiny, the Sarge spoke up.

"We're just fine, sir; couple scratches, that's all. We took care of it."

Jones nodded in approval. He gathered up his soldiers and readied them to travel on. Miller was once again at the front. Jackson was still by the Kettenkrad, deep in thought.

"Let's go, Jackson," Miller told him.

Almost hesitantly, the private complied. The Rangers walked through the long grass, heading for that distant 88 station. Jackson made sure he was distanced from the others. A strange emotion reached him. He shuddered.

Reiben was a few feet away, and Talbot was ahead of them, the satchels of Composition B dangling from his shoulders. Jackson was beginning to sense that something was wrong. It felt as if a fist had grabbed his stomach and was not about to let go…

"Cap'n?" he asked.

He barely got the word out before it happened. An explosion ripped the field apart, a large flame flashing above them, followed by a plume of greasy smoke. Jackson threw himself to the ground. The others panicked as Sergeant Horvath and Jones began to scream for them. More explosions cracked through the air. Jackson turned away, the scarlet-orange light illuminating his face. Talbot was laying one or two feet away from where he'd stepped on the mine. It didn't look like he would be getting up.


	3. Chapter 3

"STOP!!" Miller screamed, "Don't move!!"

A weary silence gripped the field. Jackson lifted his head, his eyes searching the faces surrounding him for his squadmates. He found Wade bravely attending to Talbot, only to watch him shake his head in frustration. The Sarge saw this as well.

"Get away from there!!"

Wade glared at him.

"He still might have a chance, sir!" he shouted back.

"But you won't! Get the hell out of there!!"

Jackson wasn't sure why the Sarge was being so adamant about this, until he realized the Comp. B was still in the satchels. With horror, he understood. He and the other Rangers began shouting. But Wade was determined to save Talbot. Horvath swore.

"Take cover!" he bellowed as he went after Wade.

Jackson barely had enough time to watch as the Sarge seized the medic by the collar of his uniform, yanking him away before he hit the dirt. The Composition B blew apart, hurling pieces of shrapnel and dirt and everything else into the air. Jackson buried his face, not wanting to see. A horrid rain could be heard, spattering the Ranger's uniforms and tapping on their helmets. The smell of cordite and smoke was strong in the air as Miller's squad trembled to upright positions Jackson could hear Beasley whimpering Talbot was gone.

Miller was in a state of shell-shock, but he knew he had to do something about this. They'd walked right into a minefield. He watched the men in his company, all their faces caked with dirt and splotched with blood. They looked shocked, but still grimly determined. Only Reiben, Jackson and Sergeant Horvath were not completely disoriented. Wade was in shock over what had almost happened to him, and the fact that the man he had tried to save was no where to be seen. His boots were stained a dark brown from the blood. He clung to Horvath like a scared child, which Miller understood he was.. The Captain's eyes met with the Sergeant's, silently agreeing to press onward. He noticed that Jackson was coming toward him, no longer appearing like the gentle southern boy he was.

"Sir, I know how to get out of this minefield."

"Well, someone ought to know that," the Captain, snarled, "If Allied Command can't tell me, then you might as well!"

Jackson paused, peering at his commanding officer with a brief look of sympathy. He could only imagine how absolutely frustrating this was for him. But he also knew they didn't have much time. Those 88s would be up and running soon, not to mention the Meemies.

"When the Kettenkrad came through, it only came in one direct path. They knew where the mines were placed, and drove through the safe zone."

Miller glanced over at the ruined vehicle of the _Wehrmacht_, heaving a sigh.

"It sounds good, doesn't it?" he said.

"Yes, sir."

Miller locked eyes with his young sniper.

"You had better be right about this, private."

"I have no reason to be wrong, Cap'n."

With that, the officer rose to his feet, once again addressing his men. They must have been getting sick of hearing him talk.

"We can get out of this if you all _listen_ to me," he told them, "In a moment, you will be following me, Sergeant Horvath and Private Jackson, here. I want four men to go at a time. Hustle up!"

Miller turned to go the way Jackson had discovered. He stopped when he realized the private was staying behind.

"Sir, I want to stay with Wade and the others…I'll be back here to give you cover if you need it."

The Captain nodded. Horvath smirked.

"I gotta put him up for Corporal…" he muttered.

Miller smiled in agreement.

Private Jackson joined his comrades back at the Kettenkrad. Wade appeared frightened now that the Sarge had gone. Reiben tapped him on the shoulder reassuringly. He did not come across as scared, either, but he was worried about his commanding officers. He noticed Jackson and frowned.

"What're you doin' back here, bumpkin?" he questioned.

"Lookin' after the both of you," was the reply, "I'm not about to let you step on one of those things."

"I don't need to be looked after," Reiben assured him.

"Well I'm here none-the-less, city boy."

They stayed by the treaded motorcycle, watching as the others all filed out behind Miller and Horvath. Lieutenant Jones had acquired one of the radiomen, and ordered for a squad of engineers to come by and dispose of the mines.

All of this took roughly a half-hour, and by then, most of the soldiers had made it across the field without stepping on anything deadly. Reiben and Wade were sitting in the back of the Kettenkrad; Jackson was sitting in the driver's seat.

"How's come_ you_ get to drive?" Reiben complained sarcastically, "They don't have cars where you grew up."

Jackson overlooked this statement, inspecting the bike as he sat on it. He turned the front wheel and checked the fuel.

"This has got to be the craziest thing I've ever sat on," Wade declared.

The gangly kid from Tennessee laughed at that. The three of them waited patiently for the men to make it across the path, still watching the sky for traces of artillery.

"I bet I can work this thing," Jackson mused.

Reiben sputtered.

"It isn't a tractor, buddy. Don't get ahead of yours-"

BOOM.

They froze, exchanging wide-eyed glances. The others had heard it, too. Everyone had stopped. The screaming shell was soon upon them, and the men scattered, screaming. Lieutenant Jones was shouting for them to stay on the pathway, but they were too horrified to listen. The ground burst apart in a great shower of dirt and grass. It rained down on to the three Rangers of Charlie Company, and they shielded their eyes. Wade was screaming every swear he knew.  
"Get this thing moving, Jackson!!" Reiben screamed, "GO! GO!"

The private didn't need telling twice. He searched frantically for the ignition as a second shell hit in front of them, sending dirt and shrapnel all over.

"Where the hell is the damn ignition?!" Jackson swore.

Reiben was momentarily stunned at this outburst, but ignored it.

"Kick it!" he bellowed.

Jackson understood, stomping on the bike. It roared to life, shaking from side to side.

"We're surrounded!" Wade shrieked.

A third shell slammed the earth to their left. Gritting his teeth, Jackson heaved the bike to the right, twisting the accelerator. The Kettenkrad lurched forward, sending Reiben and the medic full-tilt into Jackson. But the private hardly noticed. They tore off down the pass, the 88s still shooting after them.

"Faster!!" Reiben hollered.

Jackson hit the gas again, and the bike shot even further. The cannons were merciless, shells screeching through the air and detonating behind them in a flourish of dirt and shrapnel. Wade screamed at Jackson.

"Watch the mines!!"

They swerved, but not before grazing the edge. The mine went off, echoing through the air, but not as horrifying as the 88s. The Kettenkrad lurched sideways, tilting hard to the left. All three occupants screamed as they drove on one tread. The bike came crashing back to the ground, jarring them so badly their teeth rattled. The flak cannons still bombarded the clearing, almost as if they knew every move the bike was going to make. Jackson was praying hurriedly, through the dirt and the smoke, his voice cracking in fear.

Reiben and Wade were equally surprised at how well the sharpshooter was maneuvering. They clung to the steel of the Kettenkrad, not daring to let go. They watched helplessly as yet another shell came bombing down on them, sending the vehicle lurching around in a great arc to avoid it. Reiben, who was not a very religious man himself, was silently praying that they would get out of this mess. Beside him, Wade was gasping through this sobs,

"Jesus- Mary- Joseph-!!"

Private Jackson's knuckles were white on the handle bars as he rammed the Kettenkrad down and out a crater, sending his comrades flying around like rag dolls. They managed to keep their grip, as he could tell from their hysterical profanities. The vehicle had begun to groan under all the distress, but he took no notice of this fact. He twisted the accelerator again, standing up out of the seat, his eyes glued to the horizon, hunting for that puff of black smoke. When he saw it, he tugged the bike far to the right and it complied. The artillery shell tore up the ground just behind them. Sweat had blurred his vision, but he remained on course, heading for where the Captain and taken the others.

"MINES!!"

Jackson's eyes widened at Reiben's outburst, and he slammed the brakes, leaving a deep rut in the ground as the Kettenkrad reeled to the right, almost tipping them over. The treads grinded horribly and the gears whined, but still, the vehicle chugged on. Once again, they slammed back down on two treads. The force was so great, Reiben's knees were shoved into his chest. Wade's grip was like iron on the sides of the car, so strong his palms had started to bleed. Jackson knew they were almost safe, out of the range of any scouts. He gave the bike more gas, pushing it with his legs as if willing it to go faster. One more shell was shrieking toward them; Jackson braked hard. The world exploded all around him. He could hear Wade and Reiben screaming in terror, hearing the thud of their bodies somewhere nearby. He hit the ground hard, feeling the air leave his lungs. He gasped. A shower of damp, grainy earth rained down on them, drumming into the steel of their helmets.

Jackson, bleary-eyed and disoriented, struggled to his feet. Somehow finding his voice, he yelled for his companions. Faint cries answered him. His ears were ringing, and everything sounded distant. His body ached with pain and fatigue. Stumbling through field, he tore the long grass away from him and ran up to where he'd heard Wade's voice.

The familiar red cross symbol came into view, and he reached for the owner of the helmet, yanking him to his feet. With the medic leaning heavily on his shoulder, Jackson screamed for Reiben to follow, hoping that he could. Somewhere through the fog of confusion, a Brooklyn accent returned. That was all Jackson needed to hear. He sprinted through the remainder of the field, leaping over craters and tripping over people. He finally reached the haven of the trees, temporarily out of the 88s' line of fire. He unhooked Wade's arm from around his shoulders and slumped up against the trunk of a large tree, panting like a dog. Sweat poured down his face and slicked back his blond hair.

The 88s were still hammering the meadow, as if they were angry now that they couldn't see the soldiers any longer. Great clouds of dirt and smoke drifted through the air, chunks of earth thudding back against the ground. The three Rangers lay in the small area just out the cannons' range, laughing hysterically to themselves.

Wade wiped tears shamefully from his eyes, feeling stupid at the way he had acted in front of his buddies. But neither of them seemed to care too much, due to the fact that they were just as scared as he was.

"I better be getting' _something_ for all this," Reiben gasped, throwing his B.A.R. aside, "Otherwise, I'm going to be very pissed."

Jackson, who was flat on his back now, still trying to catch his breath, reached over and tapped the New Yorker on the knee.

"Y'all did good," he said between breaths.

The 88s were still destroying the field before them, as if to make doubly sure they were dead. Jackson was the first to roll to his feet, stumbling from the tremors the artillery shells created. From their position, he could see the flak cannons towering over the small cottages and hedgerows like three bad omens. He also saw a crowd of Rangers huddled in front of the hedges, screaming orders amongst themselves. They were trying desperately to get to the cannons.

"Reiben," said Jackson, "We have to do something."

"Do _what_, bumpkin?"

Reiben had appeared at his shoulder, and was watching the chaos.

"What more help could be possibly be to them? Think about it; we're only three more guys."

Jackson would have said something, but, amazingly, the Captain's voice sounded, causing them all to jump nearly five feet.

"Jackson! Reiben! REPORT!"

The two Rangers and the medic scrambled over to a fellow comrade, who had already left this world. The radio at his side was crackling with small arms fire and the rattling of submachine guns. Jackson snatched up the device and spoke into it.

"Cap'n Miller, sir?! Jackson here."

"Jesus!" Miller exclaimed. His men listened intently as scratching sounded over the line. The captain was addressing someone else. "They're alive, Mike!"

Jackson could detect a second exclamation before Miller continued.

"Listen, boys, I need you to do something for me!"

"Why am I not surprised, sir?" Reiben cracked.

Jackson gave him a warning stare, and the grin vanished from his face.

"We need you down here with that B.A.R." the Captain hollered, "Wade too!"

Reiben peered at Jackson and Wade with a strange expression. Jackson could tell that his heart wasn't in it. Wade looked ready to sprint down there himself. But the Captain was shouting again.

"Lock and Load, Reiben! Jackson, give him and Wade cover fire until you can get your ass down here!"

"Yes, sir."

Miller would have said more, but he chattering of the weapons overwhelmed him, and nothing more was audible. Behind Jackson, Reiben was searching around for his gear, throwing the heavy bandoleer around his shoulders. Wade was already waiting at the edge of the forest, bouncing on his heels, itching to leave. After the B.A.R. gunner was finally situated, he joined the medic, and they prepared themselves to run. Jackson leaned over his Springfield, eye to the scope, scanning for a target. He noticed the machine gun posts flanking the first hedgerow, and he aimed right for the gunners.

"Go! Now!" he yelled to the others.

They leapt into action. Jackson watched them go, silently praying as they went.

'_Watch over them, Lord; let nothing harm them. Let the enemy see me, lest they find my friends first.'_ His eyes set on the machine gun nest. The men were tensed, waiting until the two Americans came within range. Jackson pulled the trigger just before they racked the slide on the .30 caliber machine gun. The hollow, foreboding sound of the Springfield echoed across the clearing, louder than popping of small-arms fire.

But the Germans had not given up. They dragged their comrade out of the way and grabbed for the .30 once again Jackson raked a second bullet into the chamber and fired again, the sniper rifle jerking back against him. He fired a third, the spent shells tinkling on to the ground at his feet. By then, the first nest had been cleared. He watched as Wade and Reiben were able to frog-leap their way up to where the Rangers had gathered. Through the scope, Jackson could see Miller shouting for Reiben. Wade was already tending to the wounded, even before the Sarge directed him there. Jackson swung the rifle around toward the other position. The 88 operators didn't appear to be all that worried about the oncoming Allies, fully convinced that their machine gunners would take care of them.

Jackson hated staying there; he wanted to be fighting with his squad. He knew that wasn't what a sniper was supposed to do, but he felt the need to be down there just the same. The radio crackled behind him.

"Jackson!" blared the Captain's garbled voice, "Pick up!"

The lanky young man reached for the radio, gripping it tightly in his hands.

"I'm here, sir!"

He could hear the clattering of a second German machine gun, followed by the responding volleys of Allied weaponry. He turned to peer back down at the station, wincing as he watched two men jerk around from the blast of the .30.

"Thank-you for the previous help," Miller growled back into the radio, "But those bastards still have a position. We can't find it from here; it's camouflaged. I need you to find it for me, Jackson. I need that machine gun suppressed so I can send the Baker squad over their right flank."

As the Captain was saying this, Jackson was back at his Springfield, staring through the scope. He swiveled left and right, his trained eyes hunting for the distinctive barrel of the MG-42. Gun fire sounded in its staccato rattle, echoing through the still air. Jackson could hear the Rangers screaming and shouting for cover fire. It sounded even more terrifying through the radio.

"Private! Do you hear me?!" cracked the Captain's voice.

But the Southerner chose to ignore the officer's cries, those piercing blue eyes still examining the hedgerows for the machine gun. With another volley of rapid fire, he finally caught it. The nest was carefully placed just behind the 88s, at the top of a gentle slope made deadly by the German's vantage point. Forcing the cries of the Captain and his comrades from his mind, Jackson again took aim. This time, he was not sure exactly where his target was, but he had the exact image in his mind.

"O Lord, I ask for your guidance once again…"

Captain John Miller had given up trying to contact his sharpshooter via radio. He pressed himself back against the small stretch of concrete that had once been the fence to a farmer's pasture. The 88 flak cannons still boomed above him, the Earth trembling violently. It was so bad that a few of his men had fallen to their knees. The Sarge was across the way, readying the Baker squad to charge the right flank. Miller was waiting to gear himself up before sending the next batch of young men up the slope. His eyes fell to Reiben and Beasley, the latter looking badly frightened. He didn't want to send them…

"You four! Next up!" he shouted.

The group included Beasley and Reiben. Across the way, Baker squad was ready. Horvath nodded to Miller. Reiben clenched the B.A.R. firmly in his palms, whispering something. Beasley appeared near tears. The long pole charge was still on his back; Miller hoped that he would soon use it.

"On my signal!" he shouted, "Covering fire!!"

The others all began to shoot, creating another horrid racket that was synonymous with death. Miller hardly noticed it anymore, and he readied himself as well. Suddenly, the familiar cracking of a Springfield rifle sounded above. The Captain held the men, exchanging a look of surprise with Sergeant Horvath. The machine gun silenced ahead of them. The 88s boomed, reminding them that they still had to be taken care of.

"It was Jackson," Reiben declared, managing a wry smile, "The bastard's a crack shot."

The others appeared relieved. Miller sent the small group over, and this time he went with them. As they trudged up the incline, something was coming toward them. They tensed, pointing their weapons. Miller squinted curiously. Reiben was the first to notice what it was. He whistled admirably, directing his statement to the distant woods.

"One _hell_ of shot that Jacky-boy is!! 'Jack of all trades!' Watch out, _A-dolf_, Private Jackson's out to get ya!!"

Reiben whooped, traveling onward. The men around him all let out small smiles. Miller nodded in agreement. At his feet was a lone German 'tea kettle' helmet. A bullet hole was clearly visible, straight through the black, white and red _Wehrmacht_ symbol. A classic 'Jackson' shot.


	4. Chapter 4

From his perch amidst the weeds, the private from Hickory Valley, Tennessee watched his comrades moving up the hill. He was not sure if he'd hit the Germans as he'd meant to, and he remained tensed, half-expecting to hear that awful staccato chattering once more. But they made it up the slope unscathed. The Captain was first, followed by Reiben (who was unmistakable even at this distance) and Beasley.

As if to prove his handiwork, Sergeant Horvath's voice buzzed through the radio.

"Nice shootin,' son!"

Private Jackson allowed himself a smile. He picked up the heavy radio once again, saying.

"I heard that, Sarge. Orders?"

"Get down here now! We could do good with that Springfield."

Jackson didn't need telling twice. He sprang to his feet, sprinting through the grass. He quickened his pace as the 88s echoed yet again, this time flinging their shells toward the beachhead. _We have to get rid of those damn things…_

Jackson reached Horvath's position within a few more seconds. The Sarge peered at him as if he was looking at something out of the ordinary. But he shouted to the kid as he did all of them.

"I'm holding this Baker squad until Miller gets up all the way an' clears the area. You're coming with me, understood?"

Jackson nodded his reply, adjusting the helmet over his head. Wade appeared at his shoulder, his fingers damp from tending to wounds.

"We're finished here, sir. I'll be going where ever you are."

"Alright," the Sarge agreed, "Jackson, you watch him."

"Gotcha, Sarge."

Horvath glanced over the lip of the concrete barrier, the bang of the 88s resounding through the pasture. The popping of gun fire sounded above, but the cannons still crashed. A faint cry sounded.

"Clear Up!"

Horvath stood, then, Baker squad mimicking him. He waved his arm, shouting,

"Move out!!"

The American soldiers jogged up the hill, the ground trembling beneath their boots. If he squinted through the screen of trees, Jackson could see the barrels of the flak guns towering over them.

"Must be dug in pretty good," he mused.

He met eyes with Wade, whose face had whitened. The medic managed a tiny, weary grin. Sarge was taking point, encouraging them to run faster, but they were already set on their objective. They rendezvoused with Captain Miller and the remnants of the Charlie Company squads after a few minutes.

"What's the situation, sir?" questioned Sarge.

"I don't know for sure, but I think we've got 'em by surprise." As the two commanders talked, the others stood gazing at the 88s with a growing sense of doom. Jackson noticed Beasley looked about ready to throw up. His eyes left him and landed on Reiben, who noticed. He grinned and laughed quietly, nodding. Jackson smirked knowingly; _Nice shot, bumpkin…_

"Baker is still going over to the right," Miller's voice sounded, "the first one is on the left; it's the closest. I'll split up what's left of Charlie and send 'em to the other two."

Reiben couldn't resist the opportunity to put in his opinion.

"Let's not get too hasty, sir. Let a couple of fly boys take out those damn things."

The others seemed to agree. Jackson found himself nodding as well.

"As much as I would love to do that, Reiben, I can't, seeing as how it's an 88's _job_to shoot planes out of the sky!" the Captain retorted.

A collective wave of snickering rippled throughout the group. Miller shook his head, as if in disbelief. Horvath was frowning in thought.

"What about them Sherman boys?" Jackson piped up, referring to the tanks they'd left behind, "Git them off their butts and up here."

"In any other situation, I'd do that, Private, but Allied Command neglected to tell me that two possible minefields turned out to be a single giant one!"

Jackson sighed.

"Jus' thinkin' aloud is all…sir," he muttered.

It was apparent that Captain Miller was nearing his wit's end. Nothing had gone right the whole time they'd been in France.

"He might have something there, Captain," Horvath said. The cannons boomed yet again, and the forest shook from the concussion. "We can radio the tanks to shoot up here."

"They can't, Mike. They're stuck back behind minefield, outta range. They're no doubt sunning themselves by now."

There was a brief moment of silence as the soldiers all ran possible solutions through their heads. The shrieking of the Screaming Meemies blended with the sharp bang of the flak cannons. Miller seemed to have had something. He spoke.

"Those Krauts up there obviously don't realize that we're all alive and well. Being the arrogant bastards they are, I wouldn't expect them to send anyone down here to make sure." Miller paused, studying the faces of his Rangers. They were all grim-faced; determined. He continued. "We can do this thing-we'll just have to trick 'em. We'll split up as usual. The B.A.R.s that we have are staying here with me. I'll bring in that MG-42 and use it against them. That should be enough to get their attention, don't you think?"

The others weren't on board with this plan just yet, but Horvath was nodding his head.

"That'll be the distraction, then," he concluded, "I can take a group to the first 88; you'll be here to distract the squad that's guarding the one on the right-"

"-And we'll sneak in a group to circle around the one in the middle, through the forest. We could use the Meemies too, if we can get if for ourselves," Miller was grinning, now, knowing that this could actually work. "Someone get me that damn MG-42."

Beasley and Reiben jogged off to do so. Miller caught Jackson's eye as Horvath began to split the Baker squad in two.

"What can I do ya for, Cap'n?" Jackson inquired.

"See that tree over there-_ waaaay_ back there?" the officer pointed.

Jackson spotted the said tree and nodded. Miller clapped him on the shoulder.

"Think you can make that home for awhile? Give us what protection you can?"

The sharpshooter grinned. It was just crazy enough to work.

"I can manage that, sir."

"Good. I'll be sending you with the group taking the rear. They'll be in front of you once you're in the tree- just do your best."

"Shucks, Cap. No need to state the obvious…"

Miller actually smiled at that.

Reiben and Beasley had hauled the machine gun up the hill, and were setting it up as Jackson passed them.

"Where you off to?" Reiben demanded.

"To see the Wizard," Jackson answered him.

He even skipped a little. Reiben laughed, and Beasley did too.

"You're getting better at that crap," the Brooklyn kid told him, "Maybe I'm a bad influence on you."

Jackson raised his eye brows. "Yeah, maybe."

"…Watch out up there, Jackson," Beasley said.

"I will, Beez. You take care, yourself."

The sharpshooter just looked at Reiben, who still had that stupid grin on his face.

"Y'all be careful, now, y'hear?" he sputtered in a fake Southern accent.

Jackson shook his head.

"Needs more work. You're gettin' there."

Reiben reluctantly agreed. Miller called for Jackson, and he began to walk toward the waiting group.

"Good luck, Jackson," Reiben said.

The sniper nodded. Miller had nothing to really say to them, except things they already knew.  
"Keep it simple. Nobody plays hero. Just get in, do your job. A sniper will be backing you up; Runners get all the grenades. We'll be distracting them with the rapid fire here, and a flame unit will be coming within a matter seconds." One of the 88s ripped through the sky above, reminding them of the task at hand. But Miller spoke over it. "Good luck, lock and load."

He tapped a few of them on their backs. The Southern sharpshooter passed by him, and he clapped him on the helmet, watching as the group of Rangers trudged through the woods and out of sight.

Jackson was at the front of the group, checking the horizon for any more surprises. They eased past the third 88 as the Germans scrambled around for another shell, tilting the massive cannon up every so slightly. The guarding squad of S.S. troops stood impressively at the corners of the small bunker that was underneath the 88. Jackson and the others moved silently past them, hardly making a sound. They didn't look back twice at the station, just visible through the screen of foliage. They traveled on for awhile longer, then stopped, crouching in the bushes. Jackson went farther on, to the tree Miller had pointed out for him. The others watched as he climbed the branches, distant memories of home flashing through their minds.

Jackson climbed as high as he dared, then was able position himself comfortably. He reached for the Springfield, setting the crosshairs on the distant 88 station. The shells boomed again, only now he could hear the large, spent canisters clanging against the concrete. He gently rested the end of the rifle on a branch, then sucked in a breath and waited.

Captain John Miller was waiting as well. Reiben and a second B.A.R. trooper were tensed, preparing for orders. Wade was behind Horvath, crouched and out of sight as Miller had instructed. Binoculars in hand, the Captain scoped out the area.

"On my mark…"

Reiben and the second rifleman, Private Williams, tensed in anticipation. The others at the machine gun did so as well. Captain Miller leveled his Thompson; the Sarge kept his M1 Carbine raised, his finger hovering over the trigger.

"Now!!"

The MG-42 roared, tearing the bushes apart in front of them. The Germans began to shout hurriedly, trying to take a defensive position. Miller screamed over the din of the weapons,

"Group one, left flank!!"

Sarge left the machine gun outpost, taking the first squad with him. Miller watched them go over his shoulder. They made it all the way up to the first station, and the volley of gun-fire that sounded from there was drowned out by the deafening chatter of the machine gun.

"So far so good, sir," Reiben shouted, firing the B.A.R. "They're taking the bait."

Miller fired the Thompson again in short bursts, watching as the Germans scrambled around through the forest. _So far so good…_

Sergeant Horvath and his group had finished clearing out the first 88 nest, but the bunker beneath it was still a thorn in their side. Leaving the safety of the small crater he'd lead the men into, he ran in a crouch over to the wall, where two privates and corporal had taken cover. Bullets thudded into the concrete as Horvath slammed his back to the wall, just ahead of the Germans.

"Bastards know what they're doing," he panted.

"You were expecting Hitler Youth, Sarge?"

Half-supposing Reiben to have said that, Horvath was remotely surprised to find it had been Beasley with the barbed sentence. But he chose not to react. He shouted down the line to the Corporal.

"Fox! Get the Reaper over here!"

Corporal Fox nodded, bullets still cracking into the wall behind them. He had to duck, waiting for the gunfire to pass before shouting for the man named 'Reaper' to reach them. Horvath watched, shouting,

"Cover fire! Cover fire!"

His men responded without complaint; the private with a flamethrower slung over his shoulders darted up to them through the death zone. He clanked himself against the wall. Hot lead above pounded into the concrete, sending a fine dust floating down on them. Private Beasley turned to look at this man called Reaper, having never seen him before.

The Sarge had to look up at this guy, which meant that the private was well over six feet tall. He had dark eyes and a scraggly beard, making him stand out from the baby-faces of the other Rangers. He held the flamethrower loosely in his hands, and wore black leather gloves. A black bandanna was around his head, just visible from underneath his scarred helmet. Painted on the back of the flame unit was a small image of a pissed-off Mickey Mouse, appropriately giving the finger.

"Reaper," said Sarge, "I need you to-"

"I know what I've gotta do," he replied in a gravelly voice, "I need a man with a Thompson and who ever is going to be blowing up that damn thing."

He jerked his head above them toward the looming 88.

Beasley noticed a skull and cross bones had also been painted on the back of his helmet. He gulped; this guy was hardcore. His steely gaze fell to Beasley.

"You. You're coming."

Beasley wondered with growing horror why, until he remembered he was still carrying the bangalore on his back. He looked over at the Sarge, as if for approval. He nodded. Sarge ordered Corporal Fox to go as well. The three Rangers crouched at the corner of the concrete barrier, waiting for their cover fire. Fallon went first, then Reaper, with Beasley bringing up the rear. Horvath watched them, hoping they would make it up there…

Beasley was no longer scared. Right then, he was in a state of numbness, his training having taken over all thought process. The Germans came at them, but not before they were mowed down by the Thompson and Beasley's M1. He aimed up at the 88 operators, who were presently pulling out their Lugar pistols. Beasley fired on them until he heard the _ping_, signaling he was out of ammo. Fox stood in the center of the station, awaiting possible reinforcements; Beasley hurriedly reloaded as the Corporal shouted,

"Torch it!!!"

Reaper didn't need telling twice. He marched in front of the entrance, an indifferent expression across his face. Beasley watched him as the black barrel belched flame, the light playing on his face as if he were watching fireworks. The Germans remaining inside the bunker screamed in agony, flailing around. A few of them leaned out of the mouth of the bunker, falling within sight of Horvath and the others, watching on intently. All Beasley could do was stare. It was Corporal Fox who snapped him out of a daze.

"Get up there, Beasley! Blow that sonovabitch to Timbuktu!"

The private leaped into action, charging up the small staircase that lead up to the flak cannon. Tripping over bodies, he managed to catch hold of the gun, still hot from firing the shells. He climbed on to it like a monkey, arming the bagalore that had been strapped around him for so long. He shoved the pole charge down the 88's mouth, then slid off of it. His boots thudded against the dirt and he ran like hell for cover. The cannon finally exploded, behind him, steel bending as if it were rubber.

Sergeant Horvath and the others had all seen this, and they smiled in relief. Horvath was especially proud of the Beasley kid, thankful for having him finally snap out of his wimpy state.

Private Stephen Beasley was crumpled at his comrade's feet, panting as if he'd run three miles. Fox and Reaper stood to judge his work, the former whistling.

"Nice job, Beez."

The private struggled to his feet, brushing damp red bangs from his eyes.

"Was nuthin'," he replied breathlessly.

Beasley glanced over at the guy known only as Reaper. He was nodding appreciatively.

"Not bad for a first-timer," said Reaper, "But I think you can do better, kid."

They began walking back to where the Sarge waited. He sent some of the men back to Miller, still directing the distracting fire.

"Just wait 'til the next one," Beasley told them, excited now, "We'll kick some serious Kraut ass, then!"

Private Daniel Jackson watched from the corner of his eye as Private Beasley set the charge on the first cannon. The explosion resonated through the forest. The thick tree that served as his perch trembled from the sound waves. A few leaves floated down gently in front of him. _Got one; two to go…_

Captain Miller, Reiben and a few others were still directing fire toward the center, but the Germans knew what had happened. Jackson watched intently through the scope as half the Baker squad and a group of Company A men made their way over to the second 88, still thundering above. The Screaming Meemie, the simple cannon that had caused so much trouble, was now out of commission, the six barrels still smoking. The men Jackson had traveled with were waiting patiently for their attack. They needed his signal.

The sharpshooter could tell that the Germans were angry as they scurried around in his sights like grey, helmeted ants. The men at the cannon closest to him were hurrying to get off as many shots as they could before the MG-42 came closer. Jackson knew that every one of those shells was either directed at those still stuck by the minefield or on the beaches. He also knew how damn good the Germs were with those things; they would put a shell in your pocket if they could.

His attention was directed to the left 88, which the Rangers were now over-whelming. The Germans had begun to attack that position from all fronts, so this had to be quick. Jackson had already picked out a man in his crosshairs- a tall German, who appeared to be an officer of some sort. He knew where the Americans were and was relaying the information to his comrades. Jackson's grip tightened on the rifle, and he exhaled to calm himself.

"Grant me strength, Lord; let me not be ashamed…"

The Germans were still firing the 88, under orders from their commander. He was livid at the sight of the Americans running over the Fatherland's precious artillery. His machine gunners had already started to fire at them over at the cannon on the left flank, and they were doing a good job at keeping them pinned down. They had already killed a fair amount of them.

One young private, who was loading a second shell into the cannon, was beginning to think that maybe they should worry more about the MG-42 ahead. It was apparent that the Americans had a sizable amount of men left. He turned to propose something to the Commander, when a flash from the trees caught his eye. The piercing echo of a sniper rifle sounded, and the Commander lurched backward. A red mist obscured him from view, and he fell to the ground in a heap. The private, including those around him, screamed obscenities.

Private Richard Reiben heard that unmistakable sound, and flashed a quick look over at Wade. Their eyes met. _I heard it, too._

"Cap'n," Reiben shouted, "We should be moving up. We have to give them as much help as we can- they're moving on to the third cannon!!"

Miller, still firing his Thompson at the attacking Germans, agreed.

"Alright, let's move it on up!"

He assigned two privates to carry the red-hot machine gun up the pass as he and Reiben gave them suppressing fire. They set up with in a few seconds and resumed firing. The Springfield cracked above once again. Miller watched as the second bunker went up in flames, and he knew they could do this. _Come on, boys; just one more left…_

Jackson had sent the Germans into a frenzy. They scrambled around, looking for where the shots had come from, trying to set up a defensive perimeter. The Rangers had poured in after Jackson had fired the first shot, and they were swarming over the 88 site. Three of the Germans had managed to get a hold of a machine gun, but were subdued by Jackson's bullet.

Not too far away, the right bunker went up in a ball of scarlet and orange flame, signaling Reaper had done his job. Jackson continued to give his comrades back up, shooting the Germans that they'd missed, simultaneously saving the lives of two people.

He watched through the scope as the other Rangers began to make their way toward the 88. He fired on the Krauts that were blocking their way, saving yet more lives. When the group arrived at the station, Jackson relaxed, an eerie calm falling over the woods. He made sure that there were no more enemies coming, then slung the Springfield over his back and slid down from the tree.


	5. Chapter 5

Private Beasley and Corporal Fox stepped uneasily into the 88 outpost, careful not to tread on the dead German soldiers. This had been no easy task, but had taken merely ten minutes. The Rangers from Able Company and a few from Baker were waiting for them to arrive, showing no expression to speak of. Beasley felt his stomach turn at the sight of a German officer who had been shot in the back of the head. But Captain Miller's voice sounded, almost a relief.

"Clear Down!"

"Clear Up!" his men answered together.

Miller appeared through the smoke, Privates Reiben and Williams in tow, along with a few others. Wade ran ahead of him, immediately tending to the men severely wounded.

The man called Reaper appeared, and his eyes met with the Captain's.

"Clear it out, soldier," Miller said.

Beasley's wide eyes watched as the private with the flamethrower stepped before the bunker, readying himself to burn it. His eyes were dark as ever, his lips formed in a straight line. The Mickey Mouse came into view. Beasley smiled faintly, but he caught himself. Reaper reached back and clicked a valve on; a small hissing sound was audible, signaling that more fuel had been let into the tube. Beasley took a few steps back, and Corporal Fox mimicked him.

Before them, the bunker was painted with flames, reducing whatever was inside to ashes. Beasley and a few other watched on, the former with the same silent awe he'd displayed previously. Captain Miller had turned away from this spectacle, having already seen it countless times. He looked over at Sergeant Horvath, saying,

"Give me the radio, Mike…I'll see if I can reach the Shermans from here."

Horvath tossed him the 'handie-talkie,' and Miller held it up to his ear, pressing down the button.

"Captain Miller to Shermans; please respond."

The radio hissed for a few seconds before a nasal, mid-western voice answered.

"Sorry Cap'n, sir, but I can't do much back here. Our cannons can't reach that far."

"My men and I just finished taking out the damn 88s!" Miller snapped.

Private Jackson had appeared at the edge of the clearing, just catching the end of his Captain's distressed sentence. He looked up at him and the Sarge, frowning.

"I'm sorry, sir," the tank operator's voice fizzed, "We're pretty much stuck back here."

"Well, you better find a way around it, because if Kraut reinforcements end up coming this way, you'll be responsible for the death of Charlie Company! We cannot continue on like this unsupported!!"

Jackson winced. He watched as Wade moved to a second soldier who had fallen at the base of a great oak tree. A layer of gray smoke had descended around them, bringing a ghostly look to the once peaceful forest. Jackson peered over at Beasley, who noticed him, flashing the 'thumb's up' sign. The sniper understood, returning the gesture.

"I want at least one of those damn tanks through that field within the next fifteen minutes, do you understand?!" Miller was saying, not really shouting, but still angry.

Reiben was walking around in a lazy circle, waiting impatiently for orders. He hugged the rifle in his arms like a father comforting his child.

Jackson was watching the flames licking the sides of the bunker, picking twigs and leaves from his helmet. He made sure that the Springfield had a bullet in the chamber, assuming they would be moving out shortly. Pursing his lips, he slung the rifle back over his shoulder and waited.

The man named Reaper was also watching the bunker smolder and blacken before him, frowning as the Captain still spoke into the 'handie-talkie,' irritably. He shook his head.

"Just talk to him like you talk to us, Cap'n," sugguested Reaper as Miller's radio picked up a batch of static.

"If I did _that_, Reaper, I'd be relieved of command."

The soldier grunted a non-laugh, turning around to glance back at the others in the forest.

"That's the problem with the rest of this Army…a lot of 'em are a bunch of-"

What the rest of the Army was, nobody would ever know. Reaper pitched forward, the cracking of a firearm breaking the silence. Beasley cried out, and everyone spun around at his voice. But Reaper was already staggering forward, his eyes to the sky, as if he knew exactly where he was destined.

Wade was already running toward the wounded Ranger, but Reiben latched on to his arm, his eyes having caught the spark. The flame unit on Reaper's back burst into a plume of yellow and crimson, catching Beasley and two other privates in its deadly grasp.

The rest of the soldiers all covered their faces from the flames, Miller shouting at them to back away as quickly as they could.

Private Jackson just stared, smelling the horrible odor of burnt flesh and gasoline. He peered over at his commanding officers, not surprised at the troubled expressions on their faces. Miller's eyes met with the sharpshooter's, as if asking if it were an enemy sniper. Jackson shook his head; the Captain understood. That was no sniper rifle.

"Everybody get the hell away from there!" he shouted, "Let the flames die down!"

"Cap'n!!"

The tortured voice belonged to Wade, obviously desperate to help those who had been badly burned. But his cries went unanswered; Miller was keeping him right where he could see him. They all watched the flames spiral around the bunker in grim silence. Miller felt his stomach twist into a knot. His eyes had found the remaining 88 ammunition.

"Sergeant Horvath-"

"Yes, sir?"

A strange look had appeared across the Captain's face. This troubled the Sarge; he'd seen that look at Anzio, just before…

Both Miller and Horvath screamed at their men,

"Get out!! Move!!! GET OUTTA THERE!!!"

The Rangers scrambled, but it was too late. The greedy flames had spread to the 88 shells and a fuel drum behind the sandbags. With an odd spark, the ammunition went up in flames. The entire hillside exploded, hurling chunks of dirt, concrete and steel into the air. More than half of the Rangers near the hill had been caught in the blast, shredded by the shrapnel and consumed by the flames. Those who had survived were flung backwards into the mud, as if some invisible force had snatched them up and threw them rudely aside.

Private Jackson could feel the wind in his hair as he watched his boots leave the ground, the explosion crashing all around him. He felt the intense heat as he finally came back to the earth, falling heavily on his side. Needles of pain shot up the length of his body, and he screamed. A strange torrent of dirt, shrapnel and shreds of clothing fell on him and the forest, darkening his uniform with disturbing splotches. The coppery taste of blood was in his mouth, but he wasn't sure if it was his or someone else's. Jackson just lay there for a brief moment, and, for the second time in two days, found himself resentful of his military service.

Captain Miller led the survivors away from the flames, skidding to a halt at the edge of the wood. Reiben spoke up between gasps for air.

"I hate to be the one to speak out of line, sir, but why the hell did you stop?!!"

Miller looked back at his rifleman, noticing his face had been blackened from the soot and mud. His uniform was similarly caked with grime, concealing his military markings and the 'Brooklyn, N.Y.C.' scrawled on the back of his jacket.

For that brief moment, the Captain felt his age, almost believing he'd been playing soldier for too long. Another twenty or so men had just lost their lives- under his command. His green eyes, darkened with fatigue and emotion, scanned the flaming hillside as he made his next decision. The confused cries of the Rangers surrounded him, covered from head to foot in filth and blood.

Private Reiben, obviously not patient enough to wait around for what his Captain had to say, looked around wildly. He only focused on the spreading fire briefly, his mind firmly set on his friends. He shouted,

"Wade! Where's Wade?!"

The fact that no one answered scared him. Reiben left Miller's side, searching around for the medic.

"Wade! Wade!!"

"Here!" a pained voice answered him. Reiben hustled over to the big oak tree the medic had been near prior to the blast. It turned out he'd been thrown roughly eight feet, his helmet at Reiben's boots. The comrade he'd been tending to laid a stone's throw away, his eyes glazed. Reiben appeared at Wade's side within seconds, but the medic stopped him, batting his helping hand away.

"My shoulder- it's dislocated…" he groaned between breaths, "I can tell; hurts like no tomorrow-" Reiben moved to lay a hand on it, but the medic yelped, "DON'T!"

"Well how the hell am I supposed to help you?!" the rifleman snapped, scowling.

Wade reached for him with his good hand, and Reiben pulled him to a standing position. The medic whimpered, grimacing in pain. His face was pale, and sweat had beaded on his forehead. His grip was strong on Reiben's shoulder as they walked hurriedly back to where the Captain was standing.

"Wade-?" he began, but the medic shook his head.

"I'll be fine, sir," Wade answered feebly.

His arm hung heavily, and he was leaning on Reiben's shoulder. Captain Miller did not look convinced.

"I'll be fine, sir," he repeated, this time with more force.

"Are we gonna get the hell out of here or what?" demanded Reiben, all military formality aside.

Miller could feel the irritation in the private's voice, but he also knew the rest had no reason to doubt him. He spoke loudly, due to the fact that his ears -and everyone else's- were ringing.

"We're going back through the minefield- the safe route. We'll have to get a dozer down here and clear all this crap out," his next statement was directed at Sergeant Horvath, "Keep them at the edge of the wood, but hidden. I have a feeling if any more Krauts are coming, they'll be going around that fire and into the fields. I'll go out first, just in case; Reiben- you're coming with me."

The B.A.R. gunner complied, leaving Wade in the care of the Sarge. As he fell into step beside his Captain, Reiben uttered only one word.

"_Foobar_…"

Miller just smirked.

Separated from the Rangers by a barrier of fire, Private Jackson was still lying on his side, unable to get himself moving. His body ached with a dull pain, and the blood he tasted was his own. The back of his neck stung madly, and his palm had turned red after touching the spot. Jackson spat, forcing himself to roll to a crouching position. He felt dizzy, but only for a moment; the blaze was inching toward him dangerously, but he refused to become its next victim. He stood shakily, unable to see the others through the heat waves and smoke. His legs were bruised, and his ribs felt strained as he gazed around for a way out. The stretch of land leading to his right was untouched by the flames, and he speculated he'd get a good view of the field from over there. He struggled over the brush, finding a comfort in the fact that the Springfield rifle was still slung over his shoulder. His arm hurt where he'd landed on it, but nothing was broken, or so he hoped.

The persistent pinging in his ears annoyed him, but through it he could detect a sound that was out of place in the forest. A noise that frightened him. Very few things scared him these days; not even the 88s fazed him any longer, but this sound he'd never heard. He hid behind a thick tree, not unlike the one he had previously climbed, the noise crashing all around him. The stink of diesel fuel reached him, and the grinding of treads. He braced himself, hugging the Springfield.

Out of the haze, a massive tank appeared, threatening to run him right over. He scrambled out of the way, slipping in the dirt and snapping twigs under his boots. The sharpshooter fell back into the dirt, propped up against another tree, watching as the tank roared past him like a mechanical monster.

It was a Tiger I, the most formidable tank Germany had to offer. Private Jackson watched, rooted to the spot, as the colossal machine clanked past him. It rolled over a particularly large piece of the demolished bunker, snapping the fortified concrete and steel as if it were of no significance. The Tiger stank of diesel and smoke, painted in dark greens, tans and dull yellows to better camouflage it to the forest.

It stopped at the edge of the flame roadblock, as if contemplating what to do. Jackson would have forgotten it was a machine had he not heard the voices echoing inside. To his astonishment, a second Tiger came rolling down the hill, and Jackson could see a group of soldiers flanking it, correctly assuming there were following close behind. Without a single glance back, he scrambled to his feet, sprinting for the small clearing on the other side, franticly praying as he ran.


	6. Chapter 6

Private Reiben was working hard to get the soot off of his hands, but the grime refused to leave his skin. With every step he took, a small puff of ashes would spiral into the air. The two Rangers walked in relative silence, avoiding the bodies of German machine gunners who had been killed earlier that morning. The grass shimmered in the sunlight from the dust that coated it.

By then, the sun had come up, bathing the countryside in a soft, early-morning glow. The sky was a light blue, tinted with gold and orange. Reiben was relieved to have the sun heating him up; he'd been strangely cold after they'd survived the minefield. He scrubbed his hands with dirty finger nails, but the pink skin did not appear. He groaned, frustrated. Captain Miller took notice.

"What's the matter, Reiben?"

The private sighed, still working at the dirt as he replied,

"Nuthin…now I know why my mother used to scrub my face before dinner. Dirt sticks to me like superglue, Cap…"

Miller allowed himself a small grin at Reiben's memories. He had done the same to his sons, for they always came back filthy after playing a game of baseball before supper. He was sure they hated it as much as Reiben had…

But he shook his head to clear his thoughts as they came to where the minefield was located. He stopped walking, and Reiben almost ran into him.

"Shit…" Miller said.

Reiben peered around the officer, frowning. Then he understood the Captain's curse. Before them, the shallow grass had been blanketed with the same grayish-black dust that covered all the American soldiers. The 'path' through the field had been covered; the Kettenkrad that marked it was gone. All that remained of it was a twisted pile of charred, smoldering metal. Reiben could only stare at it in mounting aggravation. _Nothing, not one damn thing, could go right in this war, could it?!_

"What do we do?" he asked.

"Find a way around it," Miller answered with a dismal smile, "That's all we _can_ do."

The Captain turned to head back to the woods, watching his boots. Reiben sighed again, the B.A.R. hanging loosely off his shoulder. _I wish someone could explain the_ _sense of this to me…_ Even amidst his disgruntled thoughts, Reiben heard something.

He reached out and grabbed Miller's sleeve. They were half way between the minefield and the thicket now, and one could just see the outlines of the Rangers waiting for them up ahead.

"What is it?"

"You hear that, sir?"

Miller listened, but his ears were still ringing. He shook his head.

"No I don't."

He continued on, and Reiben followed, but somewhat hesitantly.

"Hustle up, Private," Miller warned him.

It was then he heard it, too, and he froze where he stood, straining his ears.

"I told you, sir…"

The Captain shushed him. His eyes gazed ahead, past the group of Rangers curiously watching them. The sound was distant, but he recognized it. He tensed, as if preparing himself to run. Reiben sensed this and pulled the B.A.R.

"What the hell is it?!"

The raging flames that framed the forest in an orange glow parted with a crash. All of them jumped nearly ten feet. Miller watched in dismay as the situation escalated from bad to worse before right his eyes. Reiben cursed behind him. He made a move to run toward the others, but Miller grabbed hold of his jacket, nearly ripping it from his shoulders.

"NO!" he screamed over the roar of the Tiger tank bearing down on them.

Reiben gaped at him, wide-eyed, as if the Captain had gone absolutely battle-whacky. To Miller's relief, Sergeant Horvath had done what he was supposed to, and had hidden the others amongst the foliage. Their blackened figures would add to their camouflage, with any luck.

By this time, Miller had observed that the Tank was in fact, a Tiger I, barreling its way toward the field with reckless abandon.

"Get down, Reiben," he said firmly, his voice quaking only slightly.

"Are you fucking serious?!"

The private's voice cracked. The Captain, in any other situation, would have screamed right back at him, fuming at the soldier's disregard for whom he was speaking to, but none of that mattered now.

"Do what you are told private! Get down flat!!"

Reiben did as he was told, most reluctantly, doing nothing to mask the fear on his face. Miller was just as scared, his heart hammering against his ribs. But he knew the ashes that pasted both him and Reiben a dark black was enough to conceal their markings.

With the tank bearing down on them, Miller fell in the grass, flat on his stomach. His helmet had popped up slightly, but the dull silver bars on the front of it were no longer visible. He peered at his surroundings, and jumped, having been shocked to find a second pair of eyes looking back at him. Apparently, the Captain was to share this spot with a deceased German soldier. Miller turned away. His eyes locked with Reiben's terrified dark ones, and he flashed him the faintest of smiles. The private gave a slight nod, somewhat- but not very- comforted. He'd decided in that length of time, that if he were to die, he'd rather die beside the Captain than someone he didn't trust.

The Tiger was growling toward them, a thick cloud of smoke trailing behind it. The treads whistled close by; the ground vibrated beneath the two Rangers, trails of ashes curling into the air.

Miller was able to sense the proximity of the tank, the dirt shuddering beneath him. He saw that Reiben twitched, but quickly recovered. The Tiger ground to a stop, mere inches from the Captain's arm. His heart was pounding so fast, he feared it might have been audible. But the engine chugged on above him, the 88mm gun barrel temporarily blotting out the sun. _It had to be a fucking 88- of course._

Voices sounded over the clattering of the machine; nonchalant voices, as if they belonged to men on a break from work. All Miller could do was lay motionless, praying the Germans wouldn't pay too close attention to them. His eyes, wide with terror and minor amazement, took in the scene as best he could. From his position, lying prone beside the massive tank, he was able to see every ding and scratch. The treads were well-worn, and stained a dark brown from the ashes and dirt. Branches and masses of leaves were stuck in between the cracks. An earthy smell had blended with the sharp odor of diesel fuel, and Miller observed that the Tiger was spotted with large patches of mud.

Two groups of German soldiers were marching toward the tank, pale faces framed by tea-kettle helmets. A second Tiger tank was lumbering out of the tree-line, and Miller almost cried out. _Unbelievable! This is insane!!_

Above him, the hatch clanged open. Mud flung from the top and slapped Miller on the cheek. It took almost everything he had not to react. His eyes fell to Reiben, who was on his side, perpendicular to the tank. He clutched the B.A.R. to his heart, so hard his hands were aching. It didn't matter that it hurt; it was keeping him from trembling in terror.

The Captain had focused his attention on the Tiger closest to him. A German Major had appeared. He wore an almost pristine uniform, with neat creases. It looked like he had stepped right out of a recruiting poster; the ideal soldier Hitler had in mind. A pair of field glasses hung from his neck, and the peaked cap he wore was tilted up slightly. He squinted around in the sunlight, one of his soldiers calling to him.

"_Herr Major_?"

"_Ja, was ist es_?"

They continued on it their harsh language. Miller could only watch. He had never seen the enemy this close…

"_The flak cannons have been completely destroyed, yet there is no sign of the Americans_."

Both Miller and Reiben's ears pricked up at the word, _Amerikaner_. They exchanged helpless looks as the Major laughed lightly.

"_They have to be here somewhere, private. However, I am more concerned with this_ _mine field at the moment. Round up a few men and help mark them_."

The Germans saluted, then trotted off back to the second Tiger, shouting for more of their comrades. The tank's engines near Miller sputtered, then died, sending the Tiger lurching forward a brief moment. The Major was scanning the area around him critically.

He sighed, drumming his black-gloved fingers on the hatch.

The American officer lying a mere foot away was silently praying that the radio digging into his hip would not suddenly crackle to life. He had no intention of having that tank commander's nasal voice be the last thing he heard…

Miller gawked at the German Major above him, practically staring him in the face. He had taken out a map and was studying it critically, mumbling to himself. The men he had asked for arrived, carrying with them the required tools. The Major waved his hand, sending them toward the field. The Germans plodded past Miller and Reiben, kicking up glittering clouds of ashes as they went. They spoke in quiet voices, obviously disturbed by the sight of their dead comrades.

The dust irritated Miller's nose, and he fought the urge to move a single muscle. His skin tingled uncomfortably. Yet, the Captain somehow managed to remain still, watching as a gentle breeze rippled the grass around him. Small yellow embers were floating through the clearing like strange fireflies. It was eerily beautiful, but Miller was in no position to appreciate it. Still, he found himself watching the embers drift softly around them, feeling a distant pang of hope…

Sergeant Michael Horvath was absolutely livid. The dark muck that smeared his face hid its true color, which would have been beet red. For the past few minutes, he'd been spitting a string of curses into the bushes he and the rest of the Rangers had concealed themselves in. What had just transpired did not seem real; Horvath was nearly convinced he was dreaming all of this and would soon wake up. The Captain, the closest thing to a friend he had in this war, was stranded in the middle of a field, surrounded by Germans and flanked by two Tiger tanks. That smart-ass Reiben was also trapped out there. A German officer had come into view from inside the tank, looking over a map. As far as Horvath could tell, he hadn't seen the Captain yet. With any luck, they thought they were dead. _Where the hell are those Shermans?!_

Private Williams, the second B.A.R. gunner was near hysterics, breathing in short bursts, a childish voice escaping from him every time Horvath told him to be quiet.

"I-I'm s-sorry, Sarge; I'm t-trying, Sarge…"

Wade was on his left, still nursing that dislocated shoulder, grimacing in terrible pain. Pale skin showed through the grime; his cheeks were clean where he'd wiped the sweat off. His eyes met the Sergeant's almost pleadingly. Horvath gripped the medic's good shoulder reassuringly.

"Do something, Sarge."

"Just wait, kid," he replied helplessly, "Just wait …"

Private Daniel Jackson had reached the spot he'd wanted, flinging himself back to the ground. He'd watched as the Tigers crashed through the woods, emerging in the clearing without opposition. Two of his squadmates were in that field, however. Captain Miller and Private Reiben were lying motionless on the ground, looking like a pair of coal miners taking a bizarre break from working the caves. Jackson examined possible targets through that specialized scope of his, feeling the sweat trickle down his face. His crosshairs rested on the tank commander, looking preoccupied with a map. Several feet away were two groups of Germans, stepping carefully through the mines, marking each one with a stick. Jackson didn't know how they were going to get out of this. He knew there had to be a way, but he wasn't sure he'd like the outcome. For once, he couldn't pick a target. The crosshairs on the Springfield once again fell to the German Major, but Jackson understood that if he fired on him, it would only create more confusion and his friends would be discovered even quicker.

On the other hand, if the Sherman tanks had managed to notice the two Tigers coming their way, they wouldn't stand a chance unless they were attacking from a hidden position. Even if they managed to destroy one of them, Reiben and Miller would have been killed, due to how close they were to the damn thing. Jackson sighed, a helpless, weary sigh. Nothing was ever simple for the United States Rangers. So far this war had taught him nothing else.

"O Lord, grant me strength…"

He imagined the pasture had once been a place of solace, where the farmers could sit on their back porches and watch the livestock graze, only worrying about whether or not it would rain. Private Richard Reiben may have been a child of the city, but he could picture the simple life of the farmers that no longer lived here. He could just see a small cottage across the way, its windows all smashed and its roof torn apart. The only thing that remained intact was the small front porch and a staircase leading up to a room.

The meadow was now littered with shrapnel and dead soldiers, and the two Tiger tanks dwarfed the simple little cottage. Private Reiben was trying to imagine how a nice family had probably lived there, what they would do with their time. It was more comforting than the situation he found himself in. Captain Miller was a few feet away, but Reiben no longer saw that as reassuring. If they were discovered, they would be killed. There was a slight possibility of being taken prisoner, but these Germans did not appear sympathetic.

They were blond, with high cheekbones and lean figures. They were a mix of _Waffen_ S.S. and regular grunts, ranking from privates to Major. They watched where they stepped, muttering to themselves, and every time they neared him, Reiben held his breath and stared straight ahead, faking the distant gaze he'd seen on the faces of departed Rangers. Several of the Germans had lit cigarettes, the tobacco scent blending with the odors of singed hair, diesel and soot. Unfortunately, they looked like actual people, not the ugly men that American propaganda had their soldier's believe. Reiben decided he had nothing against them…until they pointed a gun at him and tried to shoot.

"_Werden Sie schon beendet_?!" the Major shouted to the soldiers in the field.

Reiben jumped, feeling his heart racing. He waited for someone to see him, but nothing happened.

"_Nein!_ _Just a few more left, Mein Herr_!" the Germans answered.

The private suppressed a sigh of relief. He peered over at the Captain, who had seen this behavior. Miller smirked. Reiben squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to calm down. _I'm not here…This can't be happening…I'm back home, in the baseball field…_

But the sounds around him brought him back to reality; the clanking of a tank; the crunching of the dirt underneath him; the strange voices of the enemy soldiers scouting around the clearing.

For all the blabbing he did about not being scared, this was pretty damn terrifying. Reiben was not a very religious man, but he was praying to God then. He almost laughed as well, thinking, _Maybe Jackson's a bad influence on me…_

Sergeant Horvath was trying desperately to figure out what the Captain was thinking. He was also 'marveling' at how wonderfully well this mission had gone. Frustration and a lingering pang of horror was all he felt sitting there, relatively hidden, while two fellow Rangers were out in the open, surrounded by the enemy. No one back at HQ was going to believe this, not for one minute. This was the kind of thing that someone had to see first hand. _I oughtta write a damn book,_ he mused, _At least then I'd only have to explain this once._

Medic Wade had buried himself further back in the bushes, still dealing with the needles of pain that stabbed him every few seconds.

"How we doin' back there?" Horvath whispered over his shoulder.

"Just peachy, Sarge," was the tense reply.

Horvath turned back to watch the pasture, observing the Germans once again. Corporal Fox, who had managed to survive up to this point, spoke up from beside him. He was chomping on a piece of gum.

"Any thoughts, Sarge? I mean…it's killin' me, just sittin' here," he hissed.

"I dunno," sighed Horvath, "But keep your shirt on, alright? We're just waiting for the right time, that's all."

"The right time," Fox let out a humorless laugh, "There ain't gonna be a_ right_ _time_, Sarge…"

"You better watch it, Corporal."

Fox shut his mouth, but still wanted to voice his opinion. Finally, he couldn't resist any longer.

"What about Jackson? He could do something."

"He couldn't do a damn thing," Horvath growled, "He's dead. You saw what happened."

"Yeah, I saw; but I don't believe a guy like Jackson would go down that easily."

Horvath sighed, silently agreeing with the Corporal. They fell back into silence and continued to watch, waiting for the right time…

Captain John Miller was wondering what the hell was taking the Krauts so long to get moving. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. The enemy soldiers around him were on the lookout, waiting for something to happen. He watched them smoking their cigarettes, clouds puffing into the air rapidly, like mini smoke stacks. One of the Germans was very tall, and did not appear to be as troubled as his counterparts. He yawned, leaning back. He turned, and the twin lightening bolts came into view; Miller understood, then. _Waffen S.S....arrogant bastards. Why don't you make yourself an easier target for my sniper, you prick?_

But no shot came, and Miller was half-hoping it would. He didn't even know if Jackson had survived but, something told him he had.

His eyes focused back on the Major, still studying his map with a frown. He was mumbling something, tracing a line on the paper with a forefinger. Miller couldn't help but notice how similar their mannerisms were. It made the situation more uncomfortable, if that were possible.

The Major frowned, scratching his head. The peaked cap bobbed up and down as he did so. Miller observed that the German was much older than his men, but probably only a few years Miller's senior. He had clear blue eyes and a pointed nose. He wore a black uniform with brass buttons and the ribbons for several medals aligned the spot above his left pocket. A red and white swastika armband was around his left bicep, and a sliver eagle was stitched neatly on his right pocket, matching the one on the peaked cap.

Captain Miller forced himself to look away from the Major, trying to put together a plan. He was sure Sergeant Horvath was very angry at him. The truth was, he was angry with himself for not only putting his life in danger, but Reiben's as well. For all the trouble that kid caused him, he wouldn't want anything bad to happen to him. Miller especially didn't want him to die because of a dumb mistake he made.

The Major coughed above him, once again holding Miller's attention. Whether or not the German was finally bothered by all the smoke he had created crossed the Captain's thoughts. One thing was certain after this- he was never going to forget this guy. He was practically staring him in the eye.

The tiny embers were still floating around gently, swirling around like mini beacons. _Maybe the fucking Shermans'll see that_, Miller thought bitterly. Not knowing what else to do, he looked over at Reiben, who was still as terrified as he was to begin with. He was hopeless, still clutching the B.A.R. to him as if it were his best girl. Miller winked. Reiben looked away.

"_Herr Major!_"

The Germans were returning from the minefield. Their commander looked up expectantly, finally tearing his gaze from the map.

"_All finished, Mein Herr, but there is a lot of shrapnel…mind the craters_ as _well…"_

The voice was coming from somewhere behind Miller. The clanking of rifles sounded and the group crunched past him once again, kicking up more clouds of ashes. The others had all straightened up, awaiting orders. The tall S.S. soldier had appeared at the base of the Tiger, smoking a fresh cigarette. He waited for the others to pass him before directing a statement to the Major.

"_Can I help you, Private_?" questioned the commander as he folded the map and tucked it into his uniform.

Miller was hoping that this guy wasn't planning on stopping for a nice chat before heading off to mow down his comrades on the beach. But it did give him time to think…

"_Sir, if I may say so…I think we should be looking for the Americans. They could_ _not have just disappeared_."

The Tiger lurched forward and the engines growled to life. The second tank sputtered to life in the distance. The Major appeared to be unaffected by what the S.S. soldier was saying. He said something to the operators who had waited patiently below.

"_If they are here, we will find them, Private. I have two tanks here to help with_ _whatever resistance we encounter_."

"Mein Herr-"

Miller could see the universal expression of annoyance on the Major's face.

"_This is not the Waffen S.S. We do things differently; we do not go looking for conflict- it usually finds us_."

Both Miller and Reiben had no idea what the hell either German was saying, but they assumed that the conversation was pretty much over. The S.S. soldier's face had turned a dark red. The Major gave him a hard look, saying,

"_Get off of my tank_."

The soldier glared, pitching his cigarette moodily. It landed just inches from Reiben's nose.

Captain Miller was somewhat surprised, now. He and the Major had the same way of displaying authority. Of course, this fact both confused and angered him; this was not good.

The German was discussing something with his tank operators, the formality returning to his voice. Miller went back to watching the embers drift along lazily, noticing one was coming close to him. It landed right on his forehead, which was already smarting from the steel helmet digging into it. His skin started to burn dully, and he bit his tongue to keep from making noise. The pain went away as quickly as it had come, only now Miller realized his hand was shaking. He clenched it into a fist, staring at it, willing it to stop. It paused, but continued. Desperately, Miller hid it underneath him.

He was wondering why the Tiger hadn't begun to move yet; it had been rumbling beside him for nearly a minute. He looked closely at the Major, who had stopped what he was doing.

"_Orders, Mein Herr_?" called the tank operator.

The Major frowned, reaching for his binoculars. He peered through them momentarily, then squinted off in the distance. He pounded on the tank, commanding something to the operators. They complied, and the Tiger whirred, a surge of smoke appearing from the front end. Miller braced himself, sucking in a breath as the white smoke drifted above him.

Over him, the massive gun turret was grinding around slowly to face a distant knoll, on the other side of the raging fire. Miller watched the long shadow flash over him briefly before the turret clanked to a stop. There was a charged silence as everyone anticipated the coming attack. Miller feared it more than anyone else; he was _right next_ to the damn thing.  
The Tiger released its payload with a deafening crash. The tank went reeling back a few feet, and the force was so great, Miller, Reiben and the dead soldiers were lifted from the ground temporarily. In the distance, the hillside exploded, large pieces of soil and grass spiraling into the air. But the Tiger wasn't finished. The Major shouted again, his voice sounding very faint. Miller wasn't sure his ears could tolerate another barrage like that, but he readied himself, digging his fingers into the grass beside him. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. The turret roared again, and the tank was pushed back even further. The earsplitting crash echoed several times. Miller's ears were ringing terribly. _What the hell are they even shooting at?!!_

The Major was watching the horizon critically, binoculars in hand.

"_I think we got him_…" he mused aloud, tapping his fist on the hatch, "_But where_ _there is one rat, there is bound to be another_…"

Private Daniel Jackson knew he was spotted as soon as the German turned suddenly to grab his field glasses. The young sharpshooter cursed his stupidity as he scrambled for his gear. He gripped his helmet from the ground, his bruised body resisting the sudden movements. Grimacing with pain, he slid from the knoll as fast as his legs would allow, sensing impending doom. He had just put a fair amount of distance between him and the hill, when it was obliterated behind him. The force sent him flying, flinging him head over heels. He slammed up against a tree, cracking his head on a branch. Forcing himself to stand back up, he continued on, clutching the Springfield close to him. Panting, he put on a burst of speed, trying to ignore the fact that everything was getting very blurry. His head was throbbing with pain. A second shell went off behind him, closer than before. It sent him stumbling forward, and this time he fell, collapsing to the ground. As the dirt and debris pounded down on to him, the darkness began to close in. The forest distorted and faded around him; his world went black.


	7. Chapter 7

Even from inside his two-inch-thick-steel armored tank, Commander Richard McLaren could feel the tremor. He opened the hatch above him hurriedly, sunlight pouring in from the opening. Squinting, he gazed ahead, the familiar sloping field coming into view. The minefield was caked in a strange layer of dust, and shrapnel littered the area. They had prevented the engineers from heading into the area after the 88s had attacked, and no soldier had set foot there since.

Now, McLaren was worried. The deafening roar of an enemy tank crackled menacingly through the air, and the young commander braced himself. The shell collided with something in the distance, a dull thud sounding almost as loud as the tank. McLaren swore to himself, turning around to face the other Rangers he had traveled with, searching for that Lieutenant. The other men in the Sherman were talking anxiously amongst themselves; they recognized the sound just as their commander had.

Twenty-six-year-old McLaren, an 'old man' by the other soldiers' standards, knew that that wherever the enemy tank was, it certainly wasn't far away. It would be on them as soon as possible.

Unable to find the Lieutenant, he motioned to the DD tank that flanked them roughly ten feet away. There, the machine gunners had been somewhat relaxed, their hatches open, letting in the morning sun. Now, they did not appear this way; a tense expression had crossed their faces.

The DD tank looked like a regular Sherman, only it was amphibious and had actually taken part in the Omaha Beach landing. It was the only survivor of its kind, aside from McLaren's Sherman. The DD still had the flotation devices around it, only they had been deflated and folded at the sides.

The commander of this tank, a farm boy from somewhere in the mid-west, did not have as much experience as McLaren, and he was becoming increasingly annoying, due to the fact that he did not know how to speak to the Ranger Captain over the radio. He was border-line arrogant and a bit of a lunkhead, but he knew how to work his tank, and that was what mattered.

His eyes met with McLaren's, and they both had the same expression. Both of them reached for their field glasses, directing them to the field. They had seen a few Germans roaming about, but had decided to remain hidden; the two Sherman tanks were situated in the woods where the Rangers had taken refuge from the Screaming Meemies. The tanks had been unable to assist the soldiers, due to the fact that the Meemies were out of range and could not be seen.

"What's going on, sir?" asked Peterson, the machine gunner.

"I'm not sure," McLaren replied, still gazing through his binoculars, "But something tells me that our Ranger friends are in trouble…"

No sooner had he said this, when a second boom echoed through he air like hellish thunder, and there was a distant flash of orange light. McLaren flinched; it was a Tiger. He could see it, now; it had been camouflaged and blended in with the field. The grass was scattered with shrapnel and the bodies of dead soldiers. McLaren felt his heart plummet from his throat to the pit of his stomach. _A Tiger, for the love of God!_

"Orders, sir?"

Peterson's voice managed to snap him out of his personal horror.

"We wait," he concluded, nodding, "We aren't sure where the Rangers are. If we fire on the Germans, we might be firing on our own men…"

"Sir, they have to be out of range, where those 88s were."

McLaren hoped that his machine gunner was correct, but he still wasn't ready. They would have a better chance at getting the tank from the side or the rear. If they took a chance now, the shells would practically bounce off. Against a Tiger, the Shermans were immensely vulnerable. His men had realized what they were up against, now.

"Jeezus," breathed Denley, the driver, "That's a fucking _Tiger_!"

Peterson swore in disbelief, joining the chorus of curses that sounded hollow inside the tank. McLaren sighed, rubbing his chin with a hand. He closed his eyes briefly, calming himself. When he was sure that he was no longer displaying any sort of alarm, he turned back toward the DD tank. He was going to need that radio.

Sergeant Horvath's ears were buzzing mercilessly as he and his men were forced to take cover. Wade screamed as Horvath snatched him up along with Private Williams and brought them both to the ground. The artillery shell slammed into the trees further away, through the barrier of flames that still raged on. The hillside was obliterated, much like the one that held the last 88. The earth trembled beneath them as they all took cover in the bushes, protecting their heads with their arms. A second shell tore through the forest, turning everything bright and green into charred, twisted ruins. Wade screamed again, but not from fear; Williams had landed right on his shoulder. He hurriedly moved off of him. Sergeant Horvath could tell that everyone was beginning to panic, and that he had to get them under control quickly. He didn't want anyone exposing themselves to that damn Tiger. He was scared for Miller and Reiben, defenseless in that field, but he knew that the Captain would have told him to worry about the others.

He grabbed for Wade, heaving him to an upright position. The medic grimaced with pain as sweat was trickled down his face. Dirt was cascading down on them, pattering on their helmets.

"What the hell are we going to do now?!" Corporal Fox hollered, more to himself than the Sarge.

Horvath didn't respond to that question, but he was secretly asking for an answer just the same.

*********

The world seemed to have exploded. Everything was blurry and covered with dirt; boiling heat came from some unknown place, surrounding him. For a moment, he thought he had died and gone to the one place he feared to set foot in. It wasn't until pain stabbed through his arms was he sure he was alive.

Private Jackson, the gangly sharpshooter from Tennessee, rolled to his feet, his heart pounding furiously against his ribs. Everything ached. His head was throbbing with pain, and his hands were slick with blood after touching his temples and forehead. He spat out dirt and other grime from his mouth, feeling a deep bruise on his arm as he moved it around. His helmet was wedged in the tree he had fallen against, and he yanked it free, the steel hot on his palms. The netting had been burned in a few places, and mud caked it, turning it a dark brown. The skinny private plopped the helmet back on his head, rubbing his cheeks clear of blood and sweat. His ears were ringing once again, and this fact annoyed him more than anything else at that moment. As he gazed around at the destruction, only one statement came to him.

"…Lord A'mighty…."

It was more of an awed whisper than a prayer.

Avoiding the trees that the tank had set alight, he searched for his Springfield, hoping it wasn't lying somewhere in pieces. He caught a glint of light amongst the wreckage, and tore at the fallen tree branches. His fingers found the wooden stock of the rifle, and he unearthed the rest of it, breathing a sigh of relief once he realized it was still in one piece. The special scope was still shining on top of it, practically unscathed, in spite of what it had been through. He hugged the Springfield close to him, as if protecting a baby.

"I gotcha now…" he muttered, tapping the barrel, "And I ain't about to lose you again…"

Private Jackson stood, slinging the Springfield over his shoulder. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and tried in vain to scrub off the soil that was ground into his neck. His hands were filthy; his fingernails were blackened. His uniform was coated with soot, and his shirt clung to him, drenched in sweat. He cringed; he felt sticky and his head still pounded.

That Tiger had nearly got him. It was a fact that he was just beginning to absorb. He shivered where he stood; he had almost died.

But Jackson was not one to dwell on such things for long. The shouts of the Germans in the distance reminded him that his Captain and Reiben were trapped out there in the pasture. Panic gripped him tightly, and he stumbled around the ruined forest, trying to think of something.

Risking getting his skin blown off again, he made his way back to where the knoll had been, keeping low, almost on his belly. The Krauts were obviously convinced they had gotten rid of him and were preoccupied with setting up the tanks for travel. Jackson's gaze fell to the still, crumpled forms of Miller and Reiben, and he felt that panic begin to surface once more. As he raked his brain frantically for any sort of plan, he was praying for a miracle.

"_Please_, let me find some way out of this; the Cap'n and Reiben need my help…"

His eyes inspected the pasture for anything he had missed, hoping that an idea would burst into his mind.

"Please…Just gimmie a sign…_sumthin_..."

It was then he found what he was looking for. Far in the distance, past the minefield, his eyes rested on the hidden forms of two Sherman tanks. The Krauts hadn't seen them yet, for their eyes were not as trained as his. Jackson smiled, a feeling of hope coming over him.

He knew what he had to do, now. _But I'll have to go the long way…_

Jackson stole away from the destroyed knoll, and ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction. This wasn't going to be easy, but nothing came free. _There's always a_ _catch!_ As he dashed through the terrain, his thoughts were on his fellow Rangers, and he pleaded for God to give him the ability to keep his head.

"I am strengthened by this war…Let me not forget this fact…"

*********

Commander McLaren stood inside the M4 Sherman tank, listening. His men were still talking below in hushed voices, and he shushed them. They obeyed, but their faces conveyed the weariness that everyone had begun to feel. McLaren was doing his best not to show them he was just as worried; if they saw that he was upset, they might not be able to perform that well.

He needed to get in touch with that Ranger Captain, Miller. The Lieutenant that had managed to survive the Meemie attack and the minefield fiasco was not as helpful as McLaren had hoped. Jones, as he was named, was more concerned with keeping what was left of the company alive and away from the approaching tank. By now everyone had heard the echoing blast and knew what they were up against.

McLaren could see the Tiger in the distance, to the left of the minefield. He knew the Germans must have been confused on where the mines were placed, seeing as how everything was in disarray. That tank wasn't going to fit through the 'safe zone' that one private had found, either.

After failing to get the DD tank commander's attention, McLaren turned back to look through his binoculars to see if the Tiger had brought any friends. Sure enough, he could see a platoon or more of Infantry soldiers waiting behind. Smoke had surrounded the tank, and the soldiers stood behind it, readying themselves to move. A knot formed in McLaren's stomach as he watched the shadows move through the smoke. A second Tiger tank came grinding out into the open, painted jet black. Like death itself. McLaren swore loudly.

"Sir?" questioned Peterson's voice.

The commander fell back down inside the Sherman, looking dazed. The field glasses hung loosely around his neck. Peterson had wriggled from his position to come closer; Denley had done the same.

"What is it?" asked the latter.

"…There's two of them…" McLaren muttered, his eyes wide.

"What do you mean there's two of 'em?!" Patterson blurted.

McLaren looked at him with the same numb expression.

"I mean just that; there're two Tigers out there."

Denley and the machine gunner sputtered a line of curses, trying to find the reason why they had been the ones thrown into this situation.

"Wha-how-why-?"

The tank commander allowed his men a brief moment of horror before saying,

"Start 'er up. Don't worry," he said, reading their expressions, "They won't be able to hear us over their own engines."

McLaren left them, pulling himself through the hatch above. He shouted for the two other operators, and they came running obediently, having been watching the field in silent fear. They clambered into the Sherman behind McLaren as he dropped to the ground, stepping up to the DD tank. Before he could ask for the radio, a Ranger private stopped him with the words,

"Are we going down there, sir?"

"Yes, we are-?"

"Caparzo," said the stocky soldier, "Could you promise me something, sir?"

"I don't know…Caparzo."

"No, I think you could promise this," the Ranger stepped in front of McLaren and the DD tank, and worry flashed across his eyes for a brief moment. McLaren frowned curiously. "If you're gonna shoot at those bastards down there…make sure you don't hit our friends."

Private Caparzo jerked his head to the left, where a second, fidgety Ranger stood. McLaren looked from him, to Caparzo and back.

"…I think I can manage that," he said.

The private named Caparzo smirked.

"Thank-you, sir."

He joined his comrades, and they waited in silence for orders. McLaren watched them go, sighing. He stepped back up to the DD tank, where the mid-western commander was sitting.

"Give me the radio; I have to speak to that Captain."

The DD tank sputtered to life soon after his statement, and the commander passed him the 'handie-talkie' saying,

"Good luck with that, Major."

McLaren pursed his lips, turning the radio over in his hands. Before he could put it up to his ear, he saw something coming at them from the side of the hill. A dark figure was running toward them like a bat out of hell, a small cloud of black dust trailing behind him. He was sputtering something in gibberish at the top of his lungs.

"Jeezus!" McLaren exclaimed. He pulled out a pistol, leveling it at the advancing soldier.

"No! Don't shoot! Don't shoot!!"

McLaren and the other American soldiers tightened the grip on their rifles in spite of what he was saying. The commander of the DD tank wasn't about to believe this Kraut for one second.

"You think that's gonna work, ya' stupid Kraut?!" he shouted.

"I ain't a Kraut for Christ's sake!" the young soldier cried, "Don't shoot me!"

McLaren himself, wasn't sure what to believe; the soldier wore a black uniform, but his cracking voice had a Southern accent…

He proceeded to beat at his arms, and the Americans watched as a layer of soot and dirt sprayed from his uniform. The blue diamond patch of the Rangers was now visible on his right shoulder.

Private Caparzo broke into a relieved grin.

"It's Jackson!" he said.

The Americans lowered their weapons, expressions of confusion across their faces. The dirt-faced Private Jackson sprinted up the remaining stretch of grass to where McLaren stood puzzled. Gasping, Jackson stammered,

"Sir…Don't shoot, sir…Cap'n Miller is down there!"

"I was just about to radio him-"

Jackson gripped his wrist.

"Don't."

McLaren could almost feel the intensity of this statement. The soldier's eyes were hardened with determination as he stared at the commander, willing him to understand. McLaren gave him a slight nod. Jackson relaxed, feeling the panic reducing inside him.

"Hey, kid," came the annoying voice of the DD tank operator, "What the hell do you suppose we do, then? There's two Tigers down there, in case you haven't noticed!"

"I fucking noticed," Jackson spat, "They were the ones shooting at me!!"

Privates Caparzo and Mellish had been standing off to the side, watching their buddy speak with the others. After Jackson's outburst, they nodded approvingly.

McLaren intervened, hoping to save this guy any more trepidation.

"Alright, cut it out! What's your name?" he asked.

The gangly private glared at the DD tank as he scrubbed his forehead with a fist, still trying to remove the sweat and grime.

" Private Daniel Jackson, sir, Charlie Company," he drawled.

McLaren nodded again, looking up at the sky for a brief second. He was amazed that this kid had made all the way out here, but he was still without any sort of plan. The fact that he couldn't use radio contact only frustrated him more. He turned to say something to the soldier, but found that Jackson was already directing a statement toward him.

"We need to trap those Tigers right where they are, sir, so we can either blow 'em apart ourselves, or git them Navy boys to do it for us."  
"There are two of them, Private," McLaren reminded him, "Even if we managed to blow up one of them, the other one would be right on our asses."

"I know, but if we get the first one in the middle of that minefield, with the Infantry trapped between it and the other one, then we might have a shot."

Jackson waited in patient silence, desperate for the Commander to understand. As he was pondering this, the DD commander snorted in disapproval. Jackson glared at him once again.

"What, you have a better idea, sir?" he growled.

"I'm sure I could think of one."

Jackson felt a pang of fury shoot through him again. He had never been this angry at anyone in his entire life.

"Lemme hear it then, if you have the answer to everything."

Caparzo and Mellish were watching Jackson with eyebrows raised; they had most definitely never seen him like this before. It was almost entertaining.

The DD tank operator, whose name was Pratt, Jackson read, appeared to be angry that this lowly private was standing up to him. Yet, he was at a loss for words.

"I thought so," concluded Jackson, still glowering at Pratt with real hatred.

McLaren had had enough of this, and he called for their attention.

"We're going with this plan: disable the first tank and trap the Infantry in between the two of 'em," he paused, as if to convince himself of this fact as well. "Keep the radio handy incase we need backup from the Navy boys."

McLaren's eyes fell to Jackson, and he smirked.

"It's just crazy enough to work."

*******

The drumming of the Tigers was all around them. The stink of diesel fuel hung in the air, stifling the two Rangers in the pasture, still faking their death remarkably well. Private Richard Reiben was still terrified, and he wondered if Captain Miller felt the same. He shifted his eyes over to Miller, not knowing what else to do. His body was beginning to ache and his limbs were tingling from not being able to move for so long. He was starting to sweat, which frightened him more than anything. However, the Germans had not been as observant as he had feared, which he was thankful for. Reiben didn't think he could take much more of this. Either the Tigers left the field or they blew them up; which ever way, he didn't want anything to do with them.

The B.A.R. rifle remained clenched in his hands; they had turned numb after a while, and he had learned to blot out the pain in order to keep himself quiet. His helmet was cutting into the side of his head, and if he moved ever so slightly, a twinge of pain would jolt through his temple and cheek. Reiben wanted nothing more than to just_ move_. He hadn't even been able to breathe the correct way for nearly an hour now. He had never felt this vulnerable or exhausted in all his life.

Captain Miller wasn't watching Reiben, however; above him, the German tank commander was barking orders to the other Tiger over the din of the engines. The Infantry watched in respective silence as they received their orders, and the other tank operator saluted. He disappeared into his tank with a loud, creaking slam.

Miller swiveled his eyes around painfully to watch the second Tiger inch forward form the corner of his vision. It growled past him and Reiben, sending up great clouds of the ashes, leaving a clean trail of bright green grass behind it. Miller braced himself as the ashes spiraled around him, silently cursing everything he could think of.

The German Major had disappeared inside his tank, and his voice echoed strangely from inside the steel turret. The Infantry was plodding by, their MP-40 machineguns and bolt-action rifles gripped tightly and ready to fire. Miller watched them go until he was sure they had passed behind the Major's Tiger and out of sight. Eyes watering, he turned his head to look at Reiben, finally able to peel his eyes away from the dead German beside him. His head was throbbing from where the helmet had cut into him. He figured maybe they could move if the Germans had traveled far enough into the minefield, and being as blackened as they were, there was a possibility that they wouldn't be seen.

Reiben appeared to understand what was happening, a look of immense relief beginning to spread across his face. Miller, desperate to keep themselves hidden, shook his head ever so slightly and slowly put a finger to his lips.

Behind them, the second Tiger when rumbling past, treads squeaking and gears grinding. The Germans followed close behind. Miller could still see him in his peripheral vision, and prayed they would move faster. The Major's tank still towered above him, a dreadful reminder that he and Reiben were not out of trouble yet. Clouds of dust and diesel-tinged smoke swirled above their heads, choking them. Miller held his breath. His eyes flitted to Reiben to check on him, and he swore silently in disbelief. The B.A.R. gunner was about to sneeze. Miller was thinking of every swear he could come up with, hoping just as frantically for something to stop Reiben. It was bitterly humorous, though he would not discover this until later; the fact that a sneeze, something so natural and scarcely thought about, would be enough to kill him.

Reiben, with a look of pure terror himself, sneezed several times into the grass, sending puffs of dark powder into the air. His helmet fell over his eyes, and he could no longer see. He emitted a small sob, then buried his face back into the ground. His hands tightened around the B.A.R., and once again he pretended he was not there, but somewhere far away.

Captain Miller was livid with Reiben, but he knew he shouldn't be. How could he have been so stupid to let that happen?! Didn't they teach how to prevent those things in Basic?!

The hatch clanged open again, and Miller wondered if he was going to lose his mind once and for all right there. Tears of desperation had welled up in his eyes, and the blurry form of the Major reappeared. He watched as his men trudged on through the minefields, tapping his knuckles on the lip of the hatch. He shouted something to them, then muttered back down to the others in the tank. He climbed back inside it and disappeared. Miller heaved a sigh of relief as the Major's Tiger finally chugged onward, crushing a fallen rifle as it went. Miller gazed at it as it left his side, rolling on to his stomach with painstaking slowness. His hand was shaking like mad.

"S-Sir…" Reiben hissed to him.

Miller waved at him to stop talking, even though the Germans probably wouldn't hear them. The Private inched his way up to the Captain, his breathing ragged. The bridge of his nose was bleeding from where the helmet had dug into it. He stared at the Tigers rolling into the minefield, relief washing over him. His body ached at every joint, and his hands were bleeding.

"S-Sir," he stammered, "I'm sorry, Cap'n, sir, I didn't mean to do that! It just _happened_; there was nothing I could do!"

Miller managed a wry smile, slapping a dirty hand over Reiben's mouth. The private's dark eyes were wide with in determination to explain as he stared back at his Captain from over his palm. But Miller just shook his head lightly.

"Sssh…"

Reiben nodded, and the Captain removed his hand.

"It's alright, Reiben," he whispered, "You did one hell of a job out here- even if you did almost kill us…"

Not far away, the Sherman tanks were prepared to take their shots. The first Tiger was beginning to crawl its way up the middle of the minefield, the squads of Germans tagging along behind it, rifles ready to fire. They all looked the same, with their gray uniforms and squared helmets. It was hard to believe they were individual people.

Private Jackson never thought of such things, but marveled at how the Germans appeared to be one and the same. He had been instructed to provide assistance with that Springfield of his by Lieutenant Jones; Jackson lay prone in the bushes roughly twelve feet from the Shermans; groups of his fellow Rangers tensed in anticipation behind him. One had offered to be his spotter, but Jackson declined; he didn't need anyone to tell him how to do his job. He was relieved to see that Mellish and Caparzo were still alive, and they were crouched a few feet behind him.

"How'd it go up there?" Carpy whispered to him, "Is everyone okay?"

"Lost 'bout twenty men," answered Jackson, adjusting the scope of the Springfield as he spoke. The Tiger sharpened in his crosshairs as it continued toward them slowly.

"Jeezus Christ," Caprazo breathed, "How did that happen? The Krauts weren't dug in_ that_ good, were they?"

Jackson scratched left-over dirt from his beloved rifle, making sure a bullet was in the chamber. He leaned over it, nuzzling the scope with his cheek. He chose a target and waited.

"Reaper's flamethrower blew up the entire stash of ammo left over; the whole hill just went up," Jackson drawled in reply, his voice oddly calm.

Caparzo swore again, and Jackson winced.

"What about Reiben, or the Captain? Wade, too…are they alright?" Mellish wanted to know.

They both watched as the sharpshooter nodded. Mellish gasped in relief; Caparzo grunted in approval. They fell back into silence soon after. Jackson was watching the Tiger intently, waiting for Major McLaren to take a shot. He reached for his cross and kissed it. Not too far away, the Shermans were growling with the same intensity as the Tigers. Jackson kept his crosshairs set on the turret of the tank, sucking in a breath.

Major McLaren was again peering through his binoculars at the advancing Tiger. He spoke to his gunner through the radio.

"Alright, I want you to aim at the treads, but just a little bit behind them."

The turret cranked slowly to the right.

"Perfect! There's a guy with _Panzershrek_ walking right behind the thing…"

"I see 'im, Major. Say no more…"

McLaren smiled, lowering the field glasses. "It's all yours, Private..."

The tank shattered the charged silence with a resounding blast. The shell collided with the Tiger in the field, and it came to a halt, struggling to retreat. The gears whined in protest, and the treads came sliding off in one fluid motion, as if they were rivers of steel. The Germans at the back of tank began to shout in alarm amongst each other, their voices reaching a heated crescendo once the turret of the Tiger burst into flames. The gunner had hit the rockets perfectly. The hatch slammed open, and thick smoke black as charcoal came billowing out of the turret. The tank commander leaned out, coughing, shouting something.

Jackson fired a round through his heart to permanently relieve him of command.

The Germans were looking around feverishly for the source of the attack. The Rangers had opened fire by then; ahead of them, several of the enemy soldiers jerked around from the force of bullets, performing a gruesome dance before falling heavily to the ground.

Caparzo exclaimed, looking pleased with his work.

"Got two with one shot!" he bragged to Mellish, who shook his head, chomping on a wad of gum.

"Been there done that," he said.

"But not with -!"

Caparzo was silenced by his fellow comrade, Jackson, who had already taken out four Germans clustered together in his sight – all within a matter of seconds. Caparzo said nothing more; Mellish grinned in between chews.

The sniper, unaware of 'Carpy' and 'Fish's' dark competition, continued to perform as he always did; calm and collected, picking out targets as best he could. Most of the Germans had gotten smart and clustered behind the disabled Tiger; the others panicked. They ran straight into the mines. Plumes of greasy black smoke coiled into the sky; the echo of each explosion rang across the fields. The strong odor of cordite was thick in the air.

Jackson swore; his view was obstructed. He scanned around for more targets, but couldn't get a bead on anyone. The Krauts blended in with the smoke, still screaming for their comrades to take cover.

The Shermans unleashed their payloads, great patches of the earth flinging every where. Jackson closed his eyes as the dirt pounded down on him. Men on both sides were screaming. The smoke had somewhat dissipated; Jackson was able to see the Germans now, but had to bury his head as a volley of gunfire thudded into the hillside. The trees and bushes behind him were shredded to pieces. The gunfire continued on, and several Rangers began screaming. Jackson did his best to blot out their cries, focusing on a few Germans who began running back to the other Tiger. It looked like the Major was not about to stay and fight. Jackson realized with horror that they would be running straight over his friends and into the Rangers that remained hidden in the forest.


	8. Chapter 8

Captain Miller was not expecting the Tiger to burst into flames. He and Reiben both buried their heads, feeling the distant heat from the explosion.

"Where the hell did that come from?!" Reiben asked him, voice shaking.

Miller lifted his head from the grass, smiling. _It's about fucking time!_

It was then Reiben understood. He beat his fist on the ground, that familiar smile donning his filthy face.

They watched the ensuing battle, having to duck once or twice; stray bullets struck the ground ahead of them with a loud _ssssp_. Reiben was watching the Germans through the haze of smoke and dirt, his B.A.R. leveled just in case. The second Tiger in front of them was searching for a good target, its long, deadly barrel swiveling side to side. Bullets thudded into the ground mere feet away from Reiben and Miller, and they ducked instinctively, squinting through the flying soil.

"We can make a break for it!" Reiben yelled over the noise.

Miller turned to look behind him at the forest, still flaming behind them. He was about to say something back to Reiben, but stopped, hearing the dull sound of the mines exploding. The ground shook with each blast, but Miller hardly saw it as alarming; it was almost nothing compared to being next to the Tiger when it went off.

The panicked Germans continued to run into the mines as the volleys of Allied gunfire sounded around them. Out of the thick black smoke that billowed from the disabled Axis tank, a few German soldiers appeared, screaming toward the lingering Tiger.

"_Herr Major_! _Herr Major_!" they howled.

The men made it to the tank, one relaying a horrified message up to the operators. It was a strange sight to behold, a grown man screaming to a hulking steel machine…

Reiben was frowning at the German, his hold firm on the B.A.R. Miller was watching, the others, Thompson in hand. His eyes widened; the light-bulb went on in his head.

"_Jesus_!! He knows! He knows where Horvath is!"

A German pointed frantically, beside himself. Reiben made a move to shoot, but the sudden crack of a lone rifle stopped him. The German infantrymen twitched to the side, a scarlet trail of blood spurting from his chest. His legs buckled and he slumped backward, as if an invisible man had smacked him in the face.

Reiben pumped his fist in elation, a real smile on his face. Jackson was alive and well; no one else could have pulled that off.

"Fuckin'- A, Jacky-boy!"

Miller was only able to share the private's excitement momentarily. The message had been sent, and the surviving Krauts directed their attention to the Rangers in the forest. Both Reiben and Miller swore, damning their position yet again.

Sergeant Horvath had watched the whole thing transpire from their concealed location in the woods. He knew what was happening as soon as that Kraut had run up to the Tiger. As squads of Germans materialized before them, he muttered a string of obscenities under his breath.

Medic Wade was still too dazed from the pain of his dislocated shoulder to notice anything; the other Rangers, however, understood. Corporal Fox was the first to comment.

"Sarge…Uh, Sarge…"

"I know, goddammit!" Horvath snapped. He turned to Williams and a few others, "Williams, get ready with the B.A.R. You three- I want you all on the MG-42."

"What about Reiben and Captain Miller, Sarge?"

"Don't hit them for Christ's sake!"

That seemed to quiet the Corporal, who was then ordered to move up to the edge of the tree line with two groups of the others. The Sarge then sent another line to be stationed in the middle, and the final group included him at the back. He spun around to talk to Wade, who was drenched in sweat and breathing through his teeth.

"You stay right where you are, do you understand? You don't move from this spot, no matter what you hear, alright?"

"Alright, Sarge…"

Horvath stared at him for a moment, then turned back to the oncoming Germans. More had joined the group after realizing they were surrounded, and were sprinting ahead, firing their weapons. The remaining Tiger was covering their escape, machine guns spraying a round of hot lead at the others. The German foot soldiers were charging their way up the hillside, MP-40s chattering.

"Fire!!" Horvath screamed.

The MG-42 opened up on the enemy, its staccato rattle blaring in their ears. The muzzle flashes lit up the forest and several Germans fell, rolling back down the hill or slumping into lifeless forms. Horvath fired his M1 Carbine until the clip was out, then slammed a second in and resumed shooting. Corporal Fox's Thompson and the MG-42 created a deafening roar that could only be withstood on the battlefield.

"Grenade!!" Fox screeched.

The horribly familiar potato-masher grenade was flying toward them, end-over-end. It landed in the middle group, and they all scattered, screaming. The grenade exploded, flinging dirt and shrapnel into their faces. A helmet came flying at Horvath's head and he ducked. The helmet clunked somewhere behind him, and he resumed firing.

"Come on! Give it to the bastards!!"

"Grenade!!" screamed Fox again, his voice cracking.

Horvath could only watch as the German grenade came tumbling back toward them. Private Williams, in an act of bravery that some would find stupid instead of selfless, reached up and caught the explosive, presently hurling back the way it came. It blew apart within seconds, taking out the startled German who had thrown it. Horvath didn't believe it either, but the B.A.R. resumed chattering, and he knew that Williams was alright.

The Sergeant's eyes were focused ahead of him, however, in the pasture, where he knew Reiben and the Captain still lied. He willed them not to stand up. If anything made sense about this mission, it was that very fact. Don't stand up; you will get shot.

Captain Miller didn't think his nerves could take anymore of this. He was back on the ground, face down this time, and Reiben was beside him, equally exhausted. The Germans were running past them in a mad sprint to get to the forest, MP-40s clattering. Miller's ears were begging for mercy.

Reiben had had just about enough of this situation. When the Germans had gone past them, and they heard the sound of the MG-42 in the woods, he made a move to stand up.

"NO!"

Miller seized Reiben's arm and yanked him back to the grass. The B.A.R. gunner pulled away from him angrily.

"Lemme go! I'll kill 'em! Let-me-go, Cap'n!!" he snarled.

"Do you want to get caught in the cross-fire?!" Miller shouted into this face.

Reiben tore his arm from the Captain's grip, but he seemed to understand. His jaw was set firmly and there was fire behind his eyes as he said,

"Yes, sir..."

Miller, convinced he was no longer a flight risk, turned around to face the battle that had erupted behind them. Being here was just unreal. It almost felt like a dream to him.

But the land beneath them shuddered with another round of artillery fire, this time from the Shermans. With a well-aimed shot, they managed to hit the Tiger that was retreating back into the woods. The shell slammed into the Tiger's thick steel hide with a resounding bang, and a great shower of sparks spiraled into the sky. Reiben swore in surprise and disbelief; the Tiger was still rolling its way across the pasture, as if it hadn't of been touched. The remnants of the shell plopped to the ground with a dull thud, sticking straight up in the grass like strange traffic signs.

The Tiger barreled right past Reiben and Miller, and the wind was so great, their helmets nearly fell off. With treads squealing and gears grinding, it zoomed down the remaining stretch of grass, and burst back into the woods, firing blindly back at the Shermans as it went. The trees bent and snapped in the wake of the tank, then it shot through the flames, and was gone from sight.

"Everybody GET DOWN!!!" Sergeant Horvath screamed at the top of his lungs. Those who had heard him obeyed. Horvath flung himself back, dragging Private Williams along with him. He noticed that Wade was trying to aide a fallen Ranger nearby and hollered at him to get down. The woods thrashed back and forth. Trees snapped under the immense weight of the nearing Tiger; soldiers on both sides screamed.

Horvath fell flat on his back, feeling the heat of the flames; the smoke from the burning leaves and the stink of diesel fuel was choking him. The Tiger growled past him, treads squealing wildly as it retreated. A great cloud of soot, mud, and everything else in between billowed behind it, obscuring it from view. Some of the Rangers fired up at it in vain, desperate for it to go away.

Horvath watched it go through watering eyes, the smoke lingering above him, still strangling him. It almost like the Tiger was right on top of him; the roaring of the engines was all he could hear. His shouts toward the men to stay down were drowned out by the clamor.

After what seemed like an eternity, the tank had finally left them, trees and branches snapping in its wake. Horvath rolled to his stomach, fixing his eyes on the dark figure receding into the forest and out of sight. He could still hear it smashing its way through when Corporal Fox hollered for him.

"Sergeant!!"  
He sprang to his feet, noticing everyone else had leveled their weapons at the cluster of Germans in the clearing where the last 88 had been. Horvath pointed his M1 Carbine, panting.

"They're prisoners, Sarge," Fox told him through his teeth, "They've given up."

Horvath's eyes bounced from each German to the other. They looked as beaten and weary as their American counterparts. They were surrounded by at least twenty Rangers, and there were roughly the same number of Germans. Horvath blew out a calming breath.

"I don't speak Kraut, but I don't think we need to explain what kind of trouble they're in..."

Private Reiben knew it was over, because silence had finally gripped the countryside. Captain Miller was beside him, murmuring to himself. Reiben, unable to remain prone any longer, bounced to his feet. The Captain followed him.

"It's over, sir!" Reiben informed him, beaming, "It's fucking over!!!"

Miller was hesitant to share the private's elation. He squinted his eyes to where the Tiger had departed, a gaping hole now visible in the column of trees. Reiben was ready to charge through the grass and into the forest, but Miller stopped him.

"Wait, Reiben," he said.

"C'mon, Cap! What the hell else could be_ possibly_ waiting for us in that forest?! I think they've run out of surprises if you ask me!"

But Miller kept a firm grip on Reiben's shoulder, and the young private had no choice but to wait.

Ahead of them, a group of dark figures were marching out of the forest. Miller leveled his Thompson, his eyes catching the form of the German helmets. Reiben did the same, his hands shaking from the motion.

The Germans stepped into the sunlight, looking displeased and ashamed. Their hands were up in the air or behind their heads. Miller and Reiben watched with relieved smiles as Sergeant Horvath came into view, his M1 Carbine pointed at the prisoners, the surviving Rangers flanking him. They all had rifles drawn and wore strange smiles upon seeing the Captain and the wise-acre from Brooklyn.

Horvath lead the group to the middle of the meadow where the Tiger had once been, and assigned sentries to watch over the group of prisoners. He trudged his way up to Miller, laughing.

"What's so funny, Sarge?" Reiben wanted to know, "Did you finally find your sense of humor?"

Horvath just looked at them, laughing all the while.

"You look fucking ridiculous," he said, referring to their blackened faces and charred clothing.

"You don't look so bad yourself, Mike," Miller told him, grinning from ear to ear.

Reiben had never been happier to see the Sarge or anyone else for that matter. He left the Captain's side, searching the group of survivors for anyone left over from Charlie Company.

There weren't a whole lot left, but those who had made it, Reiben knew. Corporal Fox and Private Williams came toward him to shake his hand and slap him on the back. Reiben exchanged a few joking comments with them, then continued looking for more friends.

He found Wade amongst the wounded, not surprisingly. Relief washed over him in a large wave. He'd feared the worst for the poor kid.

"Hey, Doc! I need a check-up!" he shouted to him.

Wade's head shot up at the sound of that voice, and he turned sharply to face Reiben, a wide grin spreading across his face. He made sure the man he was working on was well-bandaged, then went over to Reiben, still grinning like a little kid.

"I couldn't see what was happening," Wade told him, "I didn't know if you two were hurt or not…it was killing me not being able to go and help."

"We're fine, Doc. Just a few burns and scratches. Nothing we can't handle, I promise."

Wade looked very much relieved that his friends had not gotten wounded. He had already seen enough death that day; he didn't need to lose them, too.

Reiben was just as happy to see the young medic. It was strange, however, to realize someone cared about him that much. Wade's expression suddenly turned solemn as he said,

"We lost Jackson…he's been gone ever since the hillside blew up…And, when the Tigers came through…well…I don't have to say any more than that."

Reiben's smile faded, but he knew the truth already. He put a hand on Wade's good shoulder and said,

"Jackson's alive, Wade."

"You saw him?!"

"No," Reiben shook his head, "I heard 'im. Shot a Kraut right through the heart. The guy was moving all over the place, too. Now you tell me who else could have pulled off a shot like that?"

"No one," Wade beamed, "Nobody else but him!"

Reiben nodded, smirking, "You're damn right…"

The B.A.R. trooper realized that Wade still had a dislocated shoulder. The medic's smile soon disappeared as the pain began to creep its way back up his arm.

"You should really take care of that, Doc," Reiben told him, "It's not doing you any good keep it that way."

Wade shrugged it off, albeit with difficulty. Reiben frowned.

"It's not that bad…Plus, it's hard to pop it back in…"

"What're you so afraid of?" Reiben laughed. He found it ironic that Wade would be hesitant to help himself because of the pain. "Tell me how to do it, an' I'll help you."

Wade laughed this time, a nervous, staccato laugh. He sounded like a teenager.

"I don't think so. It only takes one shot, an' if you botch it…then there's even more pain."

"Wade, don't be like my doctor at home, who's so delusional about his own health he's had pneumonia for two months."  
The medic wasn't sure if Reiben was lying to him or not; he was never sure about finding truth in what Reiben said. He sighed.

"C'mon, Doc. You trust me right?"  
Wade pursed his lips, studying the private's filthy face, and nodded. He lied down in the grass, painfully holding up his arm. Grimacing, he said,

"Alright, grab my wrist with one hand, and my forearm with the other."

Reiben complied, trying to be as gentle as he could. Wade had begun to perspire again. Reiben's grip felt tight on him.

"O-okay…put you foot where my arm and shoulder would normally meet-" needles of pain shot through his body as Reiben's boot came down to clamp his shoulder. Wade let out a small yelp.

"Doc-?"

"You're doing fine- just don't mess it up," Wade told him, squeezing his eyes shut, "Okay, I want you to yank on my arm hard, and don't stop if I scream, got it? Just yank really hard and twist a little, in one quick motion."

"Ah, Jeezus…you sure about this Wade?"  
"Yeah! Just do it like I told you!"  
Wade braced himself, his eyes shut tightly. Reiben did so as well, his grip increasing on the arm.

He yanked hard, just as the medic had told him.

Wade screamed, so loud that everyone turned to look at him, even the German prisoners. Reiben feared for a minute he'd hurt him even further, but a dull popping sound came to his ears, and the medic's scream lessened until he was just lying in the grass, breathing as if he'd ran ten miles. Heaving, he glared up at Reiben and said,

"Good job…"

Reiben watched as Wade moved his shoulder around, making sure it was popped in all the way. The B.A.R. trooper shrugged.

"…Glad I could help, buddy…"

Private Jackson was most relieved when silence finally gripped the pasture. Thick, dark smoke was curling around the wreckage of the Tiger, gently lifted into the air by a breeze. The sun was hot on his shoulders as Jackson rose cautiously to his feet. Behind him, Privates Mellish and Caparzo mimicked him.

"McLaren!" Jackson shouted.

Along the column of bushes, the Sherman tanks remained intact. The hatch on one of them yawned open to reveal a distressed McLaren. His hair was in disarray and his face shined with sweat and grime, but he gave the 'thumbs-up.' Jackson nodded to him.

Caparzo had stepped forward to get a better look at the ruined tank, and he whistled at the sight of it.

"Look at that, Fish," he said to Mellish, "_Fan_tastic…"

Jackson walked past it, the Springfield feeling heavy in his hands. His body had finally lost its tension, and now he felt completely exhausted. The dull pains were beginning to reach him once again. He stared down at the smoldering ruins of the Tiger, wiping his nose of sweat. It was finally over.

The voices of the Rangers around him sounded hollow, even as they cheered in victory, pumping their fists in the air. Jackson watched as Major McLaren slid from the top of his Sherman tank to the ground. He was smiling.

"Good shooting, son," he said.

Jackson cracked a grin after what seemed like ages.

"You didn't do so bad yourself, sir," the sharpshooter replied.

McLaren clapped him on the shoulder, still smiling. Jackson turned his gaze back to the ruined pasture, the grass still shining with the strange dust and shrapnel strewn about through the weeds.

He became aware that a group was marching its way toward them, silhouetted figures against the dying fire in the forest. A small smile etched its way across Jackson's lips. Beside him, McLaren's 'handie-talkie' crackled. The commander reached for it.

"Major McLaren, here. How are things up there, Charlie?"

The radio fizzed with static briefly before a voice answered.

"Bruised but breathing, Major, sir. We've got some company as well, so be on the look out for us."

Jackson fell into laughter at the sound of Captain Miller's voice. He sank to his knees, still laughing, holding his head. Caparzo and Mellish were both laughing just as hard. Jackson leaned back in the grass, a hand over his eyes. His helmet rolled off his head, landing face up a few feet away. His shoulders were shaking with continuing laughter; he couldn't stop grinning. His body ached, and his wounds stung, but he had never been more relieved in his entire life.

********

One of the commanders back on Omaha Beach, a tall, lean Colonel with graying hair, was pouring over the latest documents he'd received from one of his staff members. The men on the cliffs at Pointe Du Hoc had still not received their reinforcements. A runner had been able to reach them earlier that day with the information. Apparently, getting up to the cliffs was not easy task; they'd lost roughly a platoon or more within the last hour.

The Colonel sighed, putting a hand over his mouth. He could feel a bit of five o'clock shadow on his chin and frowned; he'd need to shave later. He stared down at the maps spread over his desk, watching as a few technicians marked where there had been mines, barbed wire and flak cannons. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew out the smoke through his nostrils. He hadn't heard those things going off for some time now; the ground had stopped trembling, and the sand was no longer pattering on to the roof of his tent like grainy rain.

"Colonel!"

He turned to face a youthful Lieutenant standing at attention.

"What is it, Armstrong?"

"There's a squadron here to see you, sir."

The Colonel frowned in disbelief. He chuckled to himself. Armstrong watched as little puffs of smoke escaped from his mouth.

"Come again, Lieutenant? An entire squadron?"

"…It's the remainders of Charlie Company, sir, of the Second Ranger Battalion."

The Colonel frowned again, as if he didn't remember them. Armstrong felt a distant pang of irritation. This man had given the orders to send those poor guys to take out the 88s; how could he not remember?

"What are they here for?"  
"To tell you they have completed their mission, sir."

The young Lieutenant still stood at attention, and the Colonel made no attempt to tell him 'at ease.' Instead he sighed, replacing the peaked cap on his head. He walked to the opening of the tent and stepped outside.

The air was cooler on the beach, and the scent of salt, diesel and cigarette smoke wafted by with a slight breeze. The Colonel followed Lieutenant Armstrong down through the tangles of coiled barbed wire to where the survivors of Charlie Company waited. When he first laid eyes on them, he felt a twinge of anger.

They looked like a bunch of filthy children.

Briefly, the Colonel imagined all of them throwing down their helmets and diving into one large mud puddle like pigs. Their uniforms were blackened with some kind of strange substance. They had dried blood on their arms, faces and legs; bandages showed bright on their limbs. He watched them talk amongst themselves with a scowl on his face, surprised to find a few of them smiling. He hated when these men regressed into teenagers. He'd seen it during basic training and seen it on the battleships; they only acted their age when heading into battle.

He stepped closer to them, and they noticed him this time. All at once, they snapped to attention, their boots clapping together. He saluted to them. As they returned his gesture, spurts of dust cracked off the folds in their uniforms. The Colonel pursed his lips. He told them to be 'at ease.'

"Who is the commanding officer of this company?" he asked the dirty mass of soldiers.

An apathetic-looking Sergeant sifted through the battered G.I.s, saying someone's name. The man in question elbowed his way through the men. The Colonel could hear him say, 'Can it, Reiben,' before finally stepping into the open.

He was more disheveled in appearance then any of the others. The twin Captain's bars on his left lapel flashed dully in the afternoon sun. Two wounds had made a neat row on his neck, and there was another deep mark on his forehead. The sleeves had been rolled up on his uniform, revealing bruises and burns on his forearms. He was not shaven; he made the Colonel look like a movie star.

"What's your name, Captain?"

"John Miller, sir."

Behind him, a private snickered. The man next to him elbowed him to quiet him down. The Colonel eyed them suspiciously. Miller had turned back to look at his men, quieting them down with a stare. At least he had control over them.

"Lieutenant Armstrong here informed me that you have completed your mission."

Miller nodded. "That is correct, sir. We have done what was required. All towed 88 flak cannons have been destroyed; the minefield is in the middle of being disabled; we engaged members of the _Kampfgruppe von Luck_, 346th Infantry Division, and took 23 prisoners."

The Colonel raised his eyebrows in approval, putting his hands on his hips.

"So that was the racket I heard this morning…"

"…I would imagine so, sir."

Miller's men could tell he was losing his patience. Lieutenant Armstrong appeared to sense this as well.

"Sir, they have been the only Rangers thus far to fully achieve their objectives…Would you agree that some form of reward is in order?"

The Colonel shifted his eyes to Armstrong, who almost flinched, but caught himself. He stared back at his commanding officer expectantly. The Colonel took a drag from his cigarette, looking back at the Captain and his disheveled, weary, Rangers. That gentle breeze drifted by once more, and the soot was lifted from their bodies, 'clean' spots appearing where it had blown off. They each looked like bizarre Dalmatians. The Colonel heaved a sigh.

"Captain Miller…"

He straightened up. "Sir?"  
"Seeing as how you and your men have met our expectations, and not once flinched in the face of adversity, I feel obligated to grant you all a day of rest."

The Rangers all twitched, even Miller. They had just collectively hidden their jubilation- and rather well. It was enough to make the Colonel smile.

"Keep in mind, that as soon as the sun comes up D-Day plus three, you will all be expected to work. Make sure you remind them of that, Captain."

"I will, Colonel," Miller responded, desperately holding back a grin.

He returned the Colonel's salute.

"Dismissed, gentlemen."

The survivors of Charlie Company waited patiently until the Colonel had disappeared back into his tent, then burst into cheers, clapping their hands and slapping each other on their backs. Private Jackson felt immense relief wash over him, and he almost lost his footing.

"A whole day off!!" Reiben was shouting, "An _entire _day off! That's like-Christmas in July!!

Even the Sarge was laughing. The whole thing was too hard to believe, and yet it had happened. They had been granted a day off; a rarity for the Rangers. They hadn't had a day of rest since they 'graduated' basic training.

Private Jackson had already decided he would thoroughly enjoy it.

*******

Charlie Company and the remainders from Baker spent most of their time sleeping or just lying somewhere, happy to be not in the fighting. There was not a whole lot of action down on the beach, though one could hear the popping of skirmishes in the distance.

The Germans had proven themselves to be strong fighters, and the Allies were having a hard time driving them out of the hedgerows. The threat of 88s was no longer existent, due to the work of Miller's men, and several soldiers thanked them for a job well-done.

Miller was proud of every last one of them. Some he had lost tragically, but it was out of his hands; death for some was inevitable.

He sat with Sergeant Horvath on a small hill of sand, his helmet in his lap. The sun was bright and warm. It was around 0900; the smell of the ocean lingered throughout the area. Omaha Beach was crammed full with soldiers and equipment. Olive-green Jeeps and duce-and-a-half-trucks bounced over the uneven terrain to unknown destinations. If he looked at the horizon, Miller could see the battleships anchored in the sea, their artillery cannons aimed up at the cliffs.

He and Horvath had finished eating a small breakfast of 'K' rations, which the latter had finished off with a cigarette. They were a fairly good distance away from the members of Charlie Company, who had all went their separate ways. Miller's 'regulars' were clustered together in front of a line of barbed wire fencing, some sitting in the trenches made earlier. The majority of them were smoking.

His men had already been at work early that morning, helping out the engineers with yet more mines. Reiben had proven himself useful by helping to rebuild a German motorcycle that had been shot up. The others helped with various orders and Wade, ever the caregiver, tended to the wounded that had arrived from the front lines. They were relaxing now, as much as one could relax in a war…

Jackson sat leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, smoking a cigarette. His helmet was upturned beside him, a few of his belongings inside. He'd thrown his jacket and gear at his feet; the Springfield rifle leaned against his leg. His face was back to its normal color; he'd poured water on his head the day before and cleaned his hair of soot. He'd also beaten the leftover dust out of his uniform; what had happened was only suggested by the scattered burn marks and spots of dried blood. His uniform remained considerably darker than it had been, however.

It was hot that day. The sky was a bright blue, visible through the smoke a couple of trucks had left in their wake. Jackson felt fairly at ease as he took a drag from his cigarette, letting the sun tan his skin. He was only wearing a plain olive t-shirt, along with his slacks and boots. His wounds had all healed up for the most part, though his head still hurt slightly; he had Wade to thank for that.

Jackson had occupied himself with the telescopic sight, scraping the sand and left over-dirt off of it. His dogtags and cross clinked together as he worked, the sunlight gleaming off of them. He fiddled with the scope often when he had nothing else to do; he'd turned it into somewhat of a habit.

Caparzo sat beside him, reading the instructions in an English-French dictionary to Reiben, who had taken to smoking those cigars of his again. The B.A.R. was tucked lovingly under his arm.

"Listen to this: '_If a Frenchman approaches you and kisses you on both cheeks, do_ _not be alarmed_. _This gesture is common, and is a way of saying hello_.'"

Jackson allowed himself a smile. He looked over at Wade, who was sitting across from him on his helmet. They both shook their heads.

"Sorry, if some French Nancy boy tries to kiss me, I'm going to punch him in the face."

"You would," said Mellish

He sat in front of Jackson, playing around with his bayonet. He'd used it earlier to cut up food from his breakfast ration. Reiben spoke up, moving the cigar to the corner of his mouth.

"That's too bad, Carpy…it really is. See, that's the only kind of kisses you ever get."

The group burst out laughing. Caparzo's eyes darkened with anger. He leaned over and slugged Reiben's arm, having missed his stomach after the private moved.

"Aw, lookit him! He's getting all defensive!"

The men laughed harder, Wade's teenage-like voice reaching a crescendo as he leaned forward, grinning. Reiben was still smiling as well, and stood up, taking a mocking bow.

"Thank-you, gentlemen. I'm here all night!"  
Jackson, Wade and Mellish clapped. Caparzo slugged him again.

They quieted back down, looking around them for awhile. Reiben had been hunting around for information about the Rangers at Pointe Du Hoc, and was told that a squad was going to rendezvous with them later that day. He seemed in a better mood after knowing that.

Jackson had finished with the scope, and reached for the canister to put it away. He heard Wade say,

"Y'know what I just realized? I don't know a damn thing about the Sarge. Where the hell is _he _from?"

"Maybe we should make a pool for him too," Caparzo grunted, still irritated by Reiben's sarcasm.

"Can't…I'm broke enough from the Captain as it is," Mellish answered.

Jackson threw the canister inside his helmet, then realized that his gear was missing. He turned around a few times, looking for it. He noticed Mellish was rifling through it and snapped at him.

"Gimmie that back! What the hell you thinkin'?!"

Reiben smiled.

"You get all Southern when you're pissed, bumpkin," he told him.

Jackson ignored him, reaching for his belongings. Mellish leaned out of his reach, like they were school children again, playing 'keep away.'

"What's the matter, Jackson? You got some nudie pictures in here or something?"

Reiben was interested.

"Lemme have a look at that."

Now the two of them were going through his personal items. Jackson was steadily getting angry. Wade told them to stop; he was presently ignored. Reiben found something and held it up, frowning curiously.

"Okay…we have pictures…looks like, mom and dad…family dog…" Reiben twisted the images around in his hands to get a good look; Jackson closed his eyes, clenching his jaw. "Uh…oh, your little sister; she's cute, bumpkin."

The B.A.R. gunner winked; Jackson scowled.

"Found a marble," Mellish said, presenting it to Reiben.

"What the f-?"

"- A feather!"

"Seriously, Jackson…"

"- The letter from Ike-"

"You still have that?"

Jackson made another move for his pack, but Mellish kept it away. Caparzo watched them with an amused smile on his face. Wade looked at him sympathetically.

Mellish exclaimed.

"Oh, this takes the cake right here; look at this!"

He held up a small silver bracelet, the image of a ladybug dangling off of it. Reiben laughed, sending a cloud of smoke into the air.

"Carpy, you just might have a pal!"

Jackson sighed.

"Y'all finished yet?"

"I ain't," Reiben told him in a fake Southern drawl, "Not 'til you explain this!"

The ladybug shivered back and forth as he held it up between his thumb and finger.

"It's not mine, obviously," Jackson began, "I bought that for my little sister, Evie. The day I left for Basic, she gave it to me as a good luck charm." He smiled lightly at the memory, shrugging. "It's worked for me ever since."

The others stared at him for a moment. Reiben was quiet. He put everything back inside, tossing the pack at Jackson's chest. He caught it. Obviously the explanation wasn't as 'exciting' as they had hoped. It didn't help that his story reminded them all of their own families back home.

Reiben fell back in his seat to the left of Caparzo, puffing on the cigar again.

"That's nothing," he declared, "If that works for you, that's great, Lil' Abner. But…you coulda used a rabbit's foot for Christ's sake."

Jackson laughed, putting the bracelet in the pocket over his heart, along with the pictures.

"It wouldn't be the same, city boy…"

Sergeant Horvath caught up with Miller after he returned from Lt. Colonel Anderson's command post.

"What's going on, sir?" he asked.

"Oh," Miller sighed, "We've been given a new assignment- a P.R. mission."

They walked back toward where the squad was resting, avoiding the foxholes as best they could.

"A P.R. mission?" Horvath echoed, "What are you talking about?"

Miller jumped over a sleeping private and continued.

"Some private in the 101st lost three of his brothers, and now he's got a ticket home. I've been assigned to go and get him."

"Jeezus… it sounds fishy to me."

"It is. This Ryan- Private James Francis Ryan, as they were quick to tell me- was with the boys that parachuted behind enemy lines. Intel says he's somewhere around Neuville."

The Sarge tripped over the edge of a trench, his head shooting up.

"You can't be serious! That's way the hell out there. It'll be like finding a needle in a haystack!"

Miller smiled humorlessly, helping him keep his footing.

"More like a needle in a stack of needles..."

They trudged on through the mass of soldiers and equipment, hardly reacting to the stink of diesel fuel as a deuce-and-a-half truck zoomed past them.

"For this mission I get the pick of the litter and the rest get folded into Baker."

Horvath couldn't believe his ears. For certain, now, the Captain was playing a trick on him.

"They're taking the company away from you- for _this_?!"

Miller shrugged, indifferent.

"It was the Army's company to begin with; not mine." He slowed his walking pace as he thought. "Alright; I want Jackson, Caparzo, Wade –that's a given- and Reiben on B.A.R. I need a translator, too…How 'bout that Beasley kid?"

Horvath, beginning to feel very bitter, replied,

"Beasley bought it, sir."

Miller frowned. "Okay…we'll take Mellish, then. Go and tell 'em the good news, Mike…I'll have to go and find a new translator."

He walked away, toward the nearby bunker they had helped clean out three days ago. Sergeant Horvath watched him go, shaking his head.

"Fubar," he muttered.

Reiben was entertaining them with yet another story from his hometown. They always involved the same topic: girls and the lingerie store his mother owned back in Brooklyn. He had apparently worked there numerous times, and he was lamenting about the fact that he couldn't go to Caen and see the lovely 'unmentionables' there. Jackson wasn't so sure that Reiben was telling the truth as usual, but the guy did know a lot about clothes for some reason. This fact, of course, gave Caparzo the chance he'd been waiting for.

"You know too much about that kind of shit," he told Reiben, "Maybe it's _you _who's a Nancy."

The group snickered. Reiben appeared unfazed by what the private had said.

"Well, when your girlfriend dumps you because you got clue what to buy her, who's gonna feel smarmy then?" he retorted.

Mellish laughed. Caparzo was trying to think of some kind of reply when Jackson spoke up.

"Hey…the Sarge is comin'."

His fellow Rangers turned to see that he was correct. Horvath was trudging up to him, plopping his helmet back on his head.

"Well, that could only mean good things," Mellish muttered, grinding out his cigarette.

Jackson watched as the Sergeant came up to them, his own cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He grabbed the canister from his gear and pulled out the scope once again, twirling it in his hands.

"Hey, Sarge!" Reiben said as he stepped into their semi-circle, "How goes the assault?"

"Shut up, Reiben," Horvath grumbled.

The private looked hurt. He shrugged his shoulders, frowning. He looked at Wade, asking with his eyes what he'd done wrong. The medic shrugged, a smirk on his face. The Sarge took a knee beside him, his hands crossed.

"What're you doing?" Mellish asked.

Horvath just stared at him.

"Well, I'm just so happy you all got me off this beach, that I've decided to marry the lot of you!" he snapped, the sarcasm bitter in his voice. "What the hell does it look like I'm doing?!"

"Aw, Sarge, you shouldn't! I'm gettin' all choked up…" Reiben said.

He put a hand over his heart, looking up at the sky. The cigar was still clenched in the corner of his mouth. Jackson smiled, shaking his head. He flipped the scope around between his fingers.

"What's going on, Sarge?" Wade asked.

"Finally! An intelligent question," Horvath said, sighing, "…We've been given a new assignment."

"Are we gonna take McLaren's tank this time?" Caparzo quizzed him.

"What?"

The private repeated his question. Jackson sighed. He could tell that the Sarge was irritated by whatever it was they had to do…

"No!" Horvath said to answer Caparzo's question, "Why don't we all just cut it out with the smart-ass stuff already?"

Caparzo wanted to say more but the Sarge wouldn't have it.

"Shut up, Caparzo, or I'll send you home wrapped in an American flag with a piece of cheese stuffed up your ass!!"

The squad burst into laughter; they couldn't help it.

"Because that's really in abundance here!" howled Reiben.

They continued laughing, and Horvath looked as if he thought about smiling, but resisted the urge. Jackson coughed out some of the smoke, grinning at Reiben. He reached behind Caparzo and the B.A.R. gunner slapped his palm.

"Alright already! Knock it off! This is fucking serious!" Horvath growled. "This one comes straight from the Big Kahuna, so I don't want to hear any bitching."

He shifted his position, and the squad quieted down, switching to listening mode.

"A private in the 101st, Ryan, had all three of his brothers killed in combat. We've been assigned to go find him and bring him back here so he can take that big boat home."

They stared at him in silence, and it was as if they had been frozen in time. The only way he could tell they weren't was the fact that the smoke continued to curl from their cigarettes. Jackson was the first to speak.

"Are you serious, Sarge?"

"I kid you not, Jackson," and he shook his head. "Miller's out looking for a translator who can help us, and we'll be moving out by noon."

"Wait a minute, here," Reiben said, half laughing in disbelief, "Are you hearing what your saying, Sarge? It's crazy talk. The Airborne is scattered all over the French countryside. This farmboy could be anywhere- no offense, Jackson."

"None taken," he replied.

This whole thing had begun to bother him, too. It sounded too easy…too strange.

"There's a catch," said Caparzo, "Where is this guy? Do they have him corralled somewhere, so that when we get there, we can just take him?"

"Intel said he dropped with Baker Company, 506th, around Neuville," Horvath replied.

"I don't think you pronounced that right, Sarge," Reiben informed him.

"Neuville?" Jackson echoed, pronouncing it '_new-val_,' "That place is crawling with Krauts, last I heard."

"So it is," the Sergeant said, as if he didn't give a damn one way or the other, "I thought I said no more bitching."

Jackson stared at his boots, bouncing the scope in his palm. They had all avoided Horvath's gaze, staring into space as they thought it all over.

"Gear up. That's all I have to tell you for right now."

They didn't respond as the Sarge rose to his feet, surveying them with the hard expression he was known for. He knew they would have taken it better if Miller had explained it, but Horvath got the point across easier.

"You girls are making this too hard for yourselves. I'll see if I can wrangle up a Jeep for us to use- consider that a luxury."

"You bet I will, Sarge," Reiben said, that smart-ass grin crossing his face, "I've been waiting this whole time to get me a ride."

Horvath heaved a sigh, turning to leave. They had seemed so defensive; He wondered if they would have liked to take out more 88s instead…

Jackson was fumbling with his shoe laces when Reiben came up beside him, cigar still dangling from his lips, helmet in one hand and B.A.R. propped against his shoulder.

"Can I help you, Davey Crockett?" Jackson asked, straightening up.

"Yeah, yeah, cut the smartassedness," Reiben said.

Jackson wondered if that was even a word, but decided against calling his friend out on the subject.

"What's your thinking on this new mission, Huck Finn? It sounds like a load of malarkey to me," Reiben said.

Jackson shook his head, slinging his Springfield over his shoulder.

"I ain't too worried about it," he replied.

Reiben fought to keep up with him as they traveled up the beachhead.

"Yeah, an' why's that, apple head?"

Jackson laughed, turning to face him. He shook his head, a clever smirk showing on his face, revealing tiny dimples.

"Can't you remember, boy?"

"Remember what?"

Jackson held up his cross and shook it in front of Reiben's face.

"I'm just born lucky, is all."

Reiben laughed this time, and they traveled on, slinging his arm roughly around the lanky private's shoulders.

"Right," he said, "How could I forget?"

**Author's note: Hope you enjoyed my story! Please leave if a review if you don't mind, and thanks again, so much!!! I'm grateful that you've read this far. Again, I hope you liked reading it as much as I liked writing it. ;)**


End file.
